Chapter 1: Unexpected Encounter
Summary:
“Jesus, eh? Well, I'll be damned," Muggs exclaimed, peering down at her with a sneer. "In that case, do you reckon you're the Virgin Mary?" came the voice from above her head, "Or perhaps the other one, the hooker."
“Mary Magdalene?” Julia retorted, her impatience palpable, the uncertainty vanishing from her tone. Muggs, with his opium-addled brain, seemed to be enjoying the conversation a little too much.
“Was that her name?” Muggs drawled lazily, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Imagine being that flash a fuck. They had to write your name down in some ancient tome lest we forget.”
“Lest we,” Julia echoed in a whisper, taken aback by this unfamiliar, talkative side of Muggs. She couldn't help but ask, “What are you doing in my neighborhood?”
“Bible study, can't you tell?”
Notes:
Please note: This chapter contains references to drug use and may depict situations and behaviors related to substance abuse. Additionally, it explores complex emotional interactions that some readers may find intense or challenging. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
February 1900
Brooklyn, NY
Julia Hawthorne glanced at the iron clock on her mantel, cursing the near-midnight time as she struggled with the laces of her boots. One leg stretching her skirts across the table, she unthreaded the old laces through the small holes, willing them to loosen. She was exhausted – constantly tired these days, it seemed – but rightfully so. She had important things to do, after all.
The young woman strode to the door in her unlaced boots, dragging her coat behind her and locking the door before removing her hat. Passing by a mirror, Julia inspected the young woman, staring back and dabbed away at the color on her lips with a hander kerchief. She didn’t need lipstick to go out, not really. Her natural beauty is wanted for no gimmick. Granted, it wouldn’t be unusual for Julia to add a dash of rouge to her cheeks for a Saturday morning outing to the coffee sellers – all on the off chance she might run into a friend or foe.
In the bedroom, she ran her hands along a small, discarded pile of sheet music on her desk. They were to be thrown out tomorrow, having been sorted from their dusty residence in the back of the desk drawer. A remnant of happier days, soft fingers tickling ivory keys, plucking out sweet harmonies for stuffy guests. But the audience never mattered. It was the joy of playing, of losing oneself in the music, that beckoned to Julia now and again. But that life was long gone. And now there were only the yellowing pages of old songs whose melodies faded ever more quickly into the distance. Chopin, Beethoven, Mozart. She rifled through a few pages, thumbing ripped corners, choosing one, and humming the tune from memory.
As she crooned, Julia strolled into the bathroom and sat on the tub's edge, swinging her bare, aching feet inside it. A hand-rolled cigarette hung from her lips. She tested the water’s temperature and then reached for a votive candle, which she used to light the cigarette. With an exhale of smoke, she hiked up her petticoats, beginning to unbutton her blouse. Few other things beat the anticipation of removing a corset.
But that blessed feeling would have to wait. A stiff, insistent knock on the apartment door nearly shook the walls. Feeling rather annoyed at such an interruption this time of night, Julia took the cigarette out of her mouth and waited for a moment. She hadn’t been expecting anyone. Not even Katherine Moore – who’d only moved in four months prior. No, it couldn’t be Kate. She was meant to be sound asleep and safe with Spot at this hour.
“Who is it?” Her voice sounded somewhat disguised, higher pitched than usual, tense, unsure.
No reply.
Irritated, Julia turned back to the faucet, rotating it off and stopping the rush of warm water. Another loud pound to the door made Julia swing her legs back over the tub’s edge, jump out, toss her cigarette into the sink, and throw on a nearby robe. She unlocked the door, gripping the handle tight, and tentatively opened the door with a crack.
“Can I help—” She stopped herself. “Jesus.”
Muggs Tracey stood towering over Julia in all his infernal and unorthodox splendor while striking a lucifer against the doorframe and lighting his cigarette with devilish nonchalance. The twenty-two-year-old terror combed his fingers through his raven locks, causing them to tumble into a wild and youthful disarray reminiscent of his days as a newsboy. His constant preoccupation with opium indicated that he had recently breathed in a substantial amount of the drug.
For Muggs, opium seemed to bring the world into sharper focus, rendering everything more tangible. He’s inclined to touch things and people. Of course, before the hallucinations began.
Julia can list five drugs the Water Street devil regularly uses in tandem with cocaine, and opium is by far the most offending. She despises the narcotic. It’s the drug of choice for her dearest friend, Kate, because of her frequent disappearing acts – none magical. The stuff is so potent that an endless cavern of possibilities awaits the dupe who regularly partakes in its properties: from forgetting how to dress respectably to losing all one’s money in a spontaneous card game to a complete loss of memory lasting several days. If Julia had been apprehensive at Kate’s indulgence, she now felt an iron discus had been catapulted against her solar plexus.
“Jesus, eh? Well, I'll be damned," Muggs exclaimed, peering down at her with a sneer. "In that case, do you reckon you're the Virgin Mary?" came the voice from above her head, "Or perhaps the other one, the hooker."
“Mary Magdalene?” Julia retorted, her impatience palpable, the uncertainty vanishing from her tone. Muggs, with his opium-addled brain, seemed to be enjoying the conversation a little too much.
“Was that her name?” Muggs drawled lazily, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Imagine being that flash a fuck. They had to write your name down in some ancient tome lest we forget.”
“Lest we,” Julia echoed in a whisper, taken aback by this unfamiliar, talkative side of Muggs. She couldn't help but ask, “What are you doing in my neighborhood?”
“Bible study, can't you tell?”
Julia was too exhausted to entertain whatever game he was playing. "You're an idiot. Sleep it off somewhere else," she said with a scowl as Muggs leaned further into her apartment, his arms on either side of the doorframe. "You shouldn't even be here."
“I’m being serious,” he continued, reaching out to pull at her robe, “I want you to tell me what a saint you are and why the likes of me are damned for the flames of hell—” His words were cut short by her nails digging into his wrist, the sharp action of which caused him to burst into opium-fueled laughter.
"Goodbye," Julia muttered.
“Come out with me tonight," he persisted, ignoring her.
“I never said you could drop by unexpectedly.”
“The mood struck me. Unexpectedly.”
“Kate lives here, you know.”
“That’s a lie. She’s found her way to Conlon’s bed.”
“And just what do you know of that?” She demanded.
“Enough to know Conlon doesn’t usually make them regular. Reckon she won’t sleep in your ken for long.”
“Fuck opium.”
Julia glared at him, meaning it. A dark shadow made by the flicker of candles in her apartment accentuated her anger. Muggs seemed to sense the change in temper, radiating off Julia like an electric current.
“Ain’t that a good thing?” Muggs recalled. “Now we got all night. Come on, let me have you all to myself. I’ll buy you grub.”
“I’ve already eaten—”
“Drinks, then.”
Pursing her lips together, Julia almost looked tempted. She needed sleep more than anything. Her silence prompted Muggs to retreat from the doorway, slinking somewhat into the hall.
He put his cigarette against the wall and flicked it to the side. “Fine.”
Cursing under her breath, Julia closed the door a bit. “Hold on.” She disappeared into the flat, discarding her robe and quickly rebuttoning, relacing, and re-primping in the mirror. She grabbed the coat off her bed, taking her time back to the door. She met Muggs’ expectant stare as she reemerged, turning the key in the lock and slipping it down her corset. “I’m ready. Can you walk?”
Muggs scowled. “I walked here, didn’t I.”
“Are you lucid?” She sighed and rephrased. “Can you think straight, rather—”
“I know what ‘lucid’ means, Jules.”
“Could you hold your own in a scrap if you had to?”
“Good God. What kind of question is that?” Muggs met her eyes out of his corner, observing the teasing glimmer as if she were threatening to deck him herself. “I could win a boxing match right now if the occasion arose.”
“Will you keep yourself out of trouble?”
“I’ll think it over.”
With that, Julia took his arm and hauled him down the stairs.
The Poplar Street pub was noisy and packed to the brim. Muggs’ friend, associate, and fellow Refuge convict Alexei Morozov was seated at a small table for four in the back. As was a charming girl of about twenty. Ample in bosom, dark-brown tresses cascaded over her exposed shoulders, pressed against Alexei’s body, and her fingers playing with his hair and giggling in that opium-drunk way like it was the most sensational thing on the planet for Alexei’s right hand to be lost under her skirt.
Perhaps it was, and maybe she couldn’t help but squeal. But Julia thought differently.
“Class act, Lex,” Julia greeted him with a snarl as she sat beside Muggs. “In public?”
“Julia!” Alexei flittered an affable cigarette at her with his moral left hand. His indiscreet actions operated with his right. However, they continued. “I’d like you to meet Miss Elena Blinova. Elena, this is Muggs’…” he paused, coming up empty for the proper title and settling for a loose connection between Muggs and Julia, drawn together in the air by his cigarette. “Julia’s as pretty and clever a bloss as they make ‘em.”
The pretty and clever 'blossom' in question felt her smile fade. Just in that brief interaction, she’d deduced two unsavory details.
Starting with the way Muggs’ head rose back from the table with a sharp sniff, a rolled-up bit of paper between his fingers. His lofty frame beside her became more alert. His pupils dilated and bloodshot within the bright green rings of his eyes. She knew at that moment he’d indulged in his customary nightly activity: snorting enough cocaine powder to feed his head for a week. The next item to be processed was how Alexei called her a pretty and clever bloss—yet had no idea what to call her about Muggs—probably brought on by his heavy dosage of cooked opium and subsequent exhilaration. Julia could not push Alexei or Muggs into sobriety once the night had begun, though gallant few had sworn to do so. That would require an exorcism, and no one had the time or stomach to try it.
“Elena was thrown out by her grandmother for whoring.” The ever-present, dark circles beneath Alexei’s eyes shuddered with excitement. “Even though she tried telling Babushka, she’s no hussy, and it’s me she’s been sneaking out to see. That, or it’s the opium she’s after.”
Elena Poroshenko shrugged perceptively, then produced a cheery shriek related to the doings of Alexei’s petticoat-shrouded hand. Julia wanted no further insight on the matter.
“Tell her to scram.” Muggs gestured with his head toward the exit. “If she’s homeless for the night, that ain’t our problem.”
The girl’s lips twisted into a bit of sulk. “I don’t want to leave. I love Alexei. Why does your friend hate me so, Lyoshka? Is it because I owe you for the opium?”
Julia quickly glanced at Muggs, who looked as though he had a biting reply at the ready as to who owed who for what. She pressed the toe of her shoe onto his boots with purpose, and he swallowed the snark at the last second.
“Do I have to leave?” Elena pouted her lips at Muggs. “I’ll let you and Alexei bed me again.” Eyeing Julia, she added with another encouraging smile, “And your moll, of course, if she’s game.”
“Christ, have mercy,” Muggs muttered. “Get lost, or you’re never allowed back to our ken. To smoke or otherwise. Goodnight.”
Moping attractively, Elena kissed the side of Alexei’s head, fetched her coat, and pranced her way to the front of the bar. Extending her middle finger in Muggs’ direction as a formality.
“Was that necessary, Muggs?” Alexei stretched his legs to the side of the table, adjusting his trousers and shirt now that his lap was vacant. “You like her fine—”
“I ain’t the one fingering her at the fuckin’ table, am I?” Muggs demanded, leaning forward to meet his friend’s eyes. “I don’t want her. I’d prefer if we chose a gal neither of us have been with.”
“Good luck with such a task,” Alexei owned generously as hot cigarette ash built up on his fingers. “Either I already stuck them, or you did. Present company excluded.”
Julia felt the faintest flush creep to her cheeks, not from the embarrassment of the indelicate conversation but from the rush of challenge that Muggs had just subtly laid out. He’d just entertained the idea of sleeping with someone else that night. He’d just made it clear to her and Alexei that she was replaceable. Fine then. Two could play at that game. She squared her shoulders, watching Alexei crack up in that hop-head addict way when he stood to catch up with Elena.
The waiter, who seemingly materialized out of the ether to bring their drinks to the table, was just the thing. “Your whiskey,” he said, placing the glass before Julia.
“Merci,” Julia said, giving him a most enticing eyelash flutter. It was all played to a particular tune, a specific key. A song she knew well. She could play it as fast as the gutter-trash libertine beside her.
“I hope it’s to your liking, miss,” the waiter replied, seeming to glow from the attention she paid him.
“I’ll come find you if it isn’t.”
The waiter smiled at this, entranced by Julia’s meaningful eyes, as he dismissively delivered the other drink to Muggs. “Very good.”
Julia watched him go with a satisfied half-grin before catching Muggs’ annoyed glare in her periphery.
“What’s your problem?” Julia asked, shrugging elegant shoulders.
“Guess you can’t help it,” he remarked with a puzzled little twitch of the lips, somewhere between a wince and a smirk.
Julia studied him and took the dying cigarette from where Alexei had left it, taking the final drag before putting it out against the tabletop. She mustered up her best coy smile and lifted her glass, bringing the liquid to her lips, letting it burn her throat on the way down.
“Like Atlas said. You and Moore have that siren way, don’t you’s. What’s she like?”
Julia nearly choked on the second sip of whiskey, somewhat confounded by the abrupt question.
“Katherine,” Muggs prompted, quirking an eyebrow.
“That’s not for me to say and far less for you to know about.”
“Oh, come on. Humor me. Conlon won’t tell me shit. I heard she’s an arsonist who fancies setting priests a-light, that she’s kittled as pie to throw good whiskey at certain blowhards of the Columbia University sort. Now, she’s gotta be a real pistol.”
“I do hope Alexei’s paramour is still here. He sounded keen to share with the likes of you.”
“Are you jealous?”
Julia scowled. “Of a girl who’s thoughtless enough to get involved with Alexei and then be evicted for it? Don’t make me laugh.”
“Of Moore,” Muggs smirked, resting his elbows on the table. “With Conlon.”
“The very idea.” Julia practically slammed the glass onto the table, rattling Muggs’ drink beside him. “Do you never tire of the sound of your wretched voice?” Her voice was light, but her eyes shone like pitchforks and torches of warning. “It’s exhausting.”
“Sure as hell never tire of yours.” He moved closer, pulling out the little tin in which he kept cocaine and clicked it open. “Any kind of way.” He poured out a bit of powder. “Whisperin’ in my ear.” He stacked the powder into a line and resurrected the makeshift straw again. “Muffled by my hand.” He huffed the powder through the paper and into his left nostril, pulling back with a grimace. “Screamin’ out my name.” He eyed her barely touched pint, comparing it to his half-gone one. “You going to drink that? It’s better with a little flair.”
Muggs dumped a little bit of cocaine from the tin into his drink and stirred the contents with his finger. He held out the extended index finger to Julia, cocking his head, giving her a nod in encouragement.
“No,” Julia replied after a beat, shaking her head, her hair bouncing. “I don’t care if your cocaine’s pure. I have work tomorrow.”
Muggs snickered, dipping the finger back into the glass and pulling it back out. “No cocaine, I promise.” He had a slight grin, the left corner of his mouth dimpled, locking his stare with Julia’s. His tongue glossed over his teeth, watching her gaze fall from his eyes to his whiskey-soaked finger. “Just suck.” He ignored the look she gave him, his eyes only darkening further with a playful innocence. “You savvy how, right?”
Snapping her narrowed eyes back to his, Julia leaned forward, taking his wrist, not caring if she scratched his skin with her nails again. She brought his finger to her lips, parting them slowly, sliding her tongue over the skin, licking off the whiskey. Muggs watched her movements, somewhat breathless, only to curse loudly when she sunk her teeth. He snapped his finger back, shaking it in the air, before popping it in his mouth. “Dammit, Julia!”
“Right, I’m going home,” she said with a sigh, pushing away her unfinished pint and reaching her feet.
“You’re going home alone? To do what, sleep?” Muggs sounded incredulous, downing the remaining contents of his glass. He nodded to her abandoned one. “If you’re not going to drink it, I will. I paid for the bloody thing.”
Julia smirked at him, picking up her pint as an afterthought, watching his eyes light up, knowing she had the upper hand. She saw it on his face, as elusive as it was – the desperation for her to stay. “Are you gonna play nice?”
Muggs made a mock gesture of crossing his heart. “I’ll be a saint.”
Rolling her eyes, Julia took a small sip, smiling into the glass. “That’s too fuckin’ bad. I don’t much go for saints.”
Muggs pulled her snugly down to his lap, not without much force, as she voluntarily did most of the work. “Do your uptown parents know you got a mouth like a sailor?”
Julia continued to sip her drink, staring at Muggs with a wicked gleam to match his. “Hasn’t troubled me before.”
“Oh, you’re trouble, alright.”
Feeling a little tingly from the alcohol and the remnants of Muggs’ cocaine along her gums, the room began spinning around Julia. Everything was magnifying: the sounds, the visuals, and the flip-flops in her stomach. “What?”
Muggs shook his head with a lopsided grin that promised nothing respectable. “I said, you look sort of pretty.”
Julia couldn’t help but laugh, taking another sip. “Sort of.”
“Are you getting drunker than me?” Muggs asked in mock surprise, waving the less-than-thrilled waiter over to bring him another round.
“Drunker than I, you mean. And tipsier, maybe.”
Muggs played with a strand of hair that had come loose from her neatly kept tresses. She took hold of his hand, pushing it away, staring at him, catching the flicker in his eyes. After all, it was her terms or nothing. Julia melted into his body, comfortable with this display in the dark pub where no one she knew was likely to be about.
Like a Monet painting, the world had watery surroundings and rich colors that drained into one another. Julia noticed how dreamlike the pub’s interior looked as she ducked at the last moment, avoiding the catch of Muggs’ mouth against hers. But she held fast to him, hungry for his attention. She felt her back press into the table, closing her eyes and raking a hand through her slightly perspiring hair. Everything moved slower. The way she swatted Muggs’ hand away from her corset. The way he threw his head back and laughed, devilish and swarthy. The way she caught sight of indistinct bodies moving around the pub, spotting a girl who looked like—
“Sunshine.” Julia’s glassy eyes widened, and she pushed herself away from Muggs, struggling to stumble to her feet. “Damn it.”
Confused, Muggs reached for Julia again, but she moved away, straightening her clothes and casting an anxious look toward the pub where the girl had disappeared.
“Where’s the fire?”
“It’s sunshine,” Julia could only reply dumbly, holding the side of her head and gripping the table. “I didn’t think she even knew about this place. Of course, Spot would.”
“Sunshine?” Muggs echoed, none too sure of what in the hell that meant.
Julia grabbed her coat, hurrying to put it on. “Oh, it’s Katherine, you fool!” She dropped her face as if to hide, kicking Muggs’ boots in prompt to stand. “Damn it. I told you we needed to keep this discrete, on low.”
“But I ain’t finished my drink.”
“Damn, your drink. I’ve got a fuckin’ grog shop at my place. Get up!” She hissed, folding her arms impatiently. “You can stay with me, but we have to leave.”
“Now there’s a ripe peach of an idea,” Muggs sniffed in agreement. He analyzed Julia’s panicked, swaying movements as she grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the pub and into the dark city. “Are you fit to walk, or do I need to carry you, милая?”
Julia couldn’t help but smile at that, staring almost adoringly up at Muggs as he paid her no mind, searching the snow-covered streets for a hansom cab. When one came into view, he hailed it with a whistle, cold air blowing from his mouth. He caught her stare, smirking in return, and offered a large, calloused hand to help her into the waiting hansom.
The seat was only wide enough for two. After Julia gave the driver her address, she felt the wheels take off, launching her back against Muggs’ sprawled-out frame. Skin aflame, she felt his hand crawl to the skirt fabric covering her right leg. Julia’s eyes followed the hand with an intrigued, furrowed brow, then looked up to meet his shadowed gaze. Muggs matched her expression teasingly and continued moving his hand down Julia’s clothed leg until it slipped under her skirt. He gave her an unreadable look – perhaps questioning, daring her to let him go on. She didn’t say anything. The hand continued back up her skirt, on the inside, gently grazing her stockings. Julia couldn’t help but shiver at the feeling, though she did grab his hand and pull it away. Instead, she took his hand in both of hers, tracing the indented lines, admiring the rough blisters and old scars on his palm compared to the smooth skin on hers. Muggs hummed in dull amusement, looking out the window for a time. Julia eventually laced her fingers with his, half-expecting him to pull away with a firm grimace and some choice words. She looked out her window, not wanting to witness his dismissal. But he didn’t. He let her hold his hand in the darkness of the cabin as the hansom wheels rattled them along.
She shifted to see him better in the hazy light. Muggs was looking at her now. His vivid eyes were dark, his stare almost spellbinding as he studied her. He was so hellishly attractive that her breath caught in her throat, and her heart stopped. She didn’t realize the wheels had stopped until Muggs practically kicked open the door and pulled her along with him.
They were inside her apartment in seconds, quietly opening the front door and knocking snow off their shoes against the frame. Julia was breathing hard as Muggs slid her coat off, discarding it onto her kitchen table. She mumbled something, staring at the clock on the mantle, reading the late hour in her mind as the room spun once more from alcohol, non-habitual cocaine, and wild emotions.
“Can’t hear you,” Muggs said, spinning her around so she faced him, tracing her lips with his thumb. “You gotta speak up.”
Julia couldn’t help but roll her eyes at that. “I want you—”
“Hm?” He smirked mischievously, shedding his coat and letting his suspenders fall to hang by his sides in one motion. “Come on, you’re the most ‘dead rabbit’ gal I know. Please tell me what you want me to do. Use your words.”
The accolade made her stomach flip, and Julia etched it into her brain for the next time someone called her ‘nothing but a pretty thing.’ But she found herself tongue-tied. Feeling this happily trapped and lost for words was a rarity, an oddity. She hated it, but she didn’t want it to stop. She backed up until she was sitting atop the table, keeping a handful of his shirts in her grasp, maintaining control. “I want you to...” She hissed as his hand found its way back under her skirt again. This time, she didn’t swat it away. “I…I want…”
Muggs stood before Julia, crowding her against the table, his familiar scent casing around her. He leaned down, bringing his face to her neck, gliding his nose along her jawline, his damp breath dancing over her skin, his fingers doing most of the deduction. “Oh, I see, Jules. You want me to fuck you. Is that it? It’s okay. You can say it.”
“Matthew Tracey...” Julia didn’t know if she wanted to slap or pull him closer for the evil, cavalier way he’d said it. Instead, she licked her lips and grabbed Muggs, kissing him, feeling her cheeks flush. She broke the contact, keeping his forehead against hers with a hand on the back of his neck, meeting his electrified eyes, her chest heaving with his. “I want you to fuck me,” she echoed against his lips.
Groaning, Muggs brought his face back momentarily, gripping her waist tighter. “There’s nothin’ more flash than hearing you say that.”
Is that right? Julia wasn’t entirely sold on that compliment. She wasn’t buying she had such an effect on him – so much as anything could affect Muggs. Amazed and fascinated by her power over him, she pulled his jaw closer again, invading his space for once. She slithered her hand to his thigh and walked it up leisurely until Muggs’ eyes glazed, and he gave something of a groan and a hiss. Muggs paused, his gaze focused on her hand as she tantalizingly touched him through his trousers.
“Jules,” he rasped. “Why do you always gotta kill me slow.”
“I have that way about me,” she replied, throwing his own words back at him. She wanted him writhing in frustration and need, as he’d done to her on several occasions. The apartment was dark. Warm. She eyed her bedroom door, which was left ajar. “Think of it as punishment.”
“For what?”
Julia dragged her long nails over his erection, and Muggs’ jaw loosened in disbelief as another groan escaped his lips. His eyebrows knit, and his mouth twitched into a smirk, recognizing the cat-and-mouse game she was playing. It was one he was used to winning. “You want me to suffer, don’t you, Miss Hawthorne? You want me to fuckin’ beg, do you?”
His coarse, commanding, and terrifying voice had Julia reeling from a rush of something she couldn’t describe. Flirtatious Muggs Tracey was far away. This was the person beneath the swagger and charm. Julia figured it was the tone he’d used when intimidating the weak on Randall’s Island, threatening scoundrels in his line of work, ordering inferiors about. Usually, she’d be annoyed at the voice…but for some reason, she felt further hypnotized. Every fiber of her insides compelled her to stay put. “That’s right.”
Quiet, he watched her with calculating eyes, and Julia supposed he was calling her bluff and daring her to do it. You’re the most dead-rabbit gal I know. And she knew it, too, goddammit. She needed this. Badly.
“Then make me.” Muggs breathed, eagerness heaving through his cursed blood supply like adrenaline. Julia made him feel dizzy. And he didn’t want it any other way. He didn’t care that she’d been with Spot Conlon or any other man in the city. She was his that night.
Without a reply, Julia grabbed his head again and kissed him, too revved up to care if she’d nipped at his mouth a little. Muggs responded with equal force, clawing at her, passion exceeding coordination. He had her blouse undone in record time, tossing the shirtwaist to the side. Next came her long, white, lacy shift, able to be pulled right over her head without undoing her skirt. The garment cascaded to the floor, billowing like a ghost to join her blouse. Before Muggs could begin with her corset, Julia shoved him away again. This time, she hopped down from the table, grabbed his hand, and pulled him – without much use of force – to her bedroom. Julia kicked the door closed behind her. Muggs reclined on the neatly made bed, watching the ceiling spin. He caught his breath again, staring hungrily at Julia as she straddled him. She fiddled with the buttons of Muggs’ shirt, dropping down to kiss him again as if she were starved for it.
With a growl, Julia was flipped onto her back with Muggs atop her, changing the dynamic in a flash. With an encouraging scratch to Muggs’ back, she ran her fingers over years of scars: fights, fingernails, the dreaded cats. None of that mattered now. Julia grinned maliciously as Muggs grabbed her hands and pinned her wrists down, giving a bite to her neck. She whined, liking the sensation, the teasing violence, the way that he was a dangerous man but would be damned if he ever struck her. Julia dug her nails into Muggs’ hands, adding to the numerous scrapes on his palms.
Muggs kissed his way down Julia's body, unraveling each layer of her clothes with expertise. He took his time, catching her eye and looking somewhat conflicted.
“You’re teasing me,” Julia said finally.
“I’m being gentle with you," Muggs replied, leaving her breathless.
Julia’s eyelashes fluttered momentarily, and she pushed her wild hair from her face. “I didn’t ask you to be gentle. It doesn’t suit you.”
She gave him a shrug, and he studied her for a second, moving her dresses and stockings to the floor. Her breath was ragged as she felt the room's humidity on her bare legs. Her eyes challenged him to continue.
“Spread your legs. Take off your drawers," he said hoarsely.
Her throat tightened as she slowly slithered the clothes off, parting her legs to make room for his shoulders. Muggs’ mouth was watering like a hound, more than she’d ever seen it, more than for opium or cocaine or bloodshed. Goosebumps prickled Julia’s skin as he ducked his head, and her heart quickened. She closed her eyes, allowing the sensations to invade her body, breathing her way back to earth. When his fingers found her, she panted, moving her hips to pull him deeper, feeling the walls close in until—
The turn of the key in the front door lock and the subsequent creak made Muggs, and Julia freezes like two cats in a thunderstorm. Kate was inside the apartment. Shooting Muggs, a look that could make a dead man quiver, Julia slowly reached for her petticoat skirt and blouse. Muggs’ fingers, however, remained engaged. He grinned wickedly at her, seeming to realize who had just entered the place.
“Julia?” Kate’s voice called from the kitchen, sounding as tired and distant as a lost soul.
Frowning at Muggs and biting her lip to keep from screaming, Julia shut her eyes and then opened them. “Yes, sunshine. I’m here.”
“I’m not staying,” Kate hollered, followed by a series of movements outside Julia’s door. “Could I borrow a nightgown? Mine’s still drying from the wash. And Spot doesn’t keep any lying around, which is ironic because…” Her voice faded away as she walked to another part of the flat.
“Yes, just a second," Julia stuttered.
Muggs quirked an eyebrow at Julia, licking his lips briefly before moving his head back down again. Julia winced, wanting to throttle him. Murder, she mouthed, I’ll murder you.
“Should I wait out here?” The shadow of Kate’s shoes was right outside the door.
Panic rose in Julia’s throat. “Yes!” She hadn’t meant to holler it so forcefully, but Muggs had earned it. “I’ll bring it to you. Sorry, I…thought I saw a…rat.”
“Alright…”
Julia tried to get up, but Muggs’ grip on her thighs tightened, restraining her from moving as he continued his work. Seriously, Julia mouthed, this time unable to hide the tremor through her body. She threw her head back against the pillows and then brought it back to glare at him. You are the devil.
“Julia?” Kate’s voice made Julia’s heart falter. Oh God, she was going to walk in. Julia was taking too long. And no doubt Spot was waiting for Kate somewhere outside the flat. Perhaps out in the cold on the sidewalk.
“Well, I'll be damned,” Julia mused, pondering what to do next. She couldn’t let the cat out of the bag and reveal Muggs' dirty deeds to Kate. It'd ruin everything.
“You know what? Forget it!” Kate hollered, sounding pleased as punch. “I just found one of your fancy things out here. Can I use it?”
Julia scrunched her brain, trying to figure out what Kate was referring to until she recalled her lace shift lying where that lowdown Muggs had thrown it and wicked, vile, viscous Muggs Tracey. “Sure, that's fine,” Julia croaked, her voice strained as Muggs' fingers teased her with his slow, tantalizing movements.
“Do you want me to fetch it?”
Julia cast her eyes towards the door, her heart thumping like a steam engine. “Fetch what?”
“The rat.”
“No need to fret,” Julia managed, huffing to catch her breath. She scowled at the man between her legs. “I’ll handle it.”
“Goodnight then!”
Julia shut her eyes and held her breath until she heard the door creak shut. When she opened them again, Muggs was lounging back, grinning like a cat who got the cream and relishing in the mortified look on her face.
“Was that Moore?” He jibed, slinking to loom over her, his tattooed arms caging her head. “Never reckoned you were so helpless.”
Julia shot him a nasty glare before smacking him hard across the face. As he gathered his wits, a bit stunned but tickled pink, she had the nerve to do such a thing. Julia shoved him onto his back, gripping his brawny biceps, scarcely straddling him, tormenting his flesh with the absence of hers. “You haven't got a clue what helpless means, Tracey.”
Chapter 2: The Prize Fight
Summary:
“Lord have mercy, Jules, I ain’t going to kill him. This is for charity. Anyway, there are too many witnesses for me to pull off such a lay, even if I wanted to.” Muggs rubbed his weary eyes in apparent exasperation. “And it’s decided. I’m more than capable.”
“Bite my tongue, then. I didn’t realize bare-knuckle scraps with boys in the lodging house, the Refuge, or back alleys qualified you to spar with a professional bruiser and an important community leader. I’m sorry for doubting your prowess.”
“Not sure I accept that little miss,” Muggs spat.
Julia Hawthorne slammed the wooden cover over the piano keys with an echo throughout the instrument, shifting to face Muggs with a blood-chilling smirk. “And what if you win?”
Notes:
Please note: This chapter contains references to drug use and contains sensitive content. Additionally, it explores complex emotional interactions that some readers may find intense or challenging. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
January 1902
Brooklyn, NY
There was meant to be a highly anticipated boxing match that night. But before Spot Conlon left Killmeyer’s eatery, he was told that Lightning Louis, prize fighter and tannery proprietor on the waterfront, had been indisposed after a night of heavy imbibement and God knows what else at the Golden Rule Pleasure Club over in the Tenderloin. Lightning Louis was discovered the following day wandering about in an alleyway, missing his trousers and his billfold, by a roundsman who didn’t much care for the likes of male moral defectors, regardless of pugilist status, and the disgraced boxer was thrown in a precinct cell. Spot heard tell that twenty-three-year-old Muggs Tracey was considering stepping up as an understudy and fighting instead.
Spot knew better than to doubt someone like Muggs. But that didn’t stop him from dreaming of beating the older boy into much-needed, bloody yet non-scarring common sense.
Even if he wanted to trade blows or words with Muggs, Spot knew the devil was nowhere to be found this evening. It is nowhere apparent, anyway. If Muggs was genuinely preparing for a fight or a night on the town, he could’ve been anywhere in the city. And while Spot had longed to throttle the young man so hard he saw stars, after a long day of work and rumination, the twenty-year-old figured the effort would be fruitless – much as his landlady Mary O’Connell surmised years ago. So, Spot took a trip to the red-brick flat – the outside he’d become so familiar with in the past year – to call on his escort for the night’s festivities.
The flat was at 380 South 4th Street in Williamsburg. It was mostly a Russian-Jewish neighborhood. Spot had been well-acquainted with the area for some time, having often attended on-again, off-again night school classes at a Sisters of Mercy charitable trade school, which Brooklyn Knights of Columbus of the Catholic Church officially ran. Nuns taught most of the classes, including English language for new Americans, and – to the fury of many residents – Catholic religious instruction to the children in attendance, regardless of background.
Spot found his usual perch, a wide ledge along the dark brick of the apartment building’s frame, and waited for Katherine Moore. Sunset eased leisurely over the dull rattle of hansom cabs on cobblestone. Faraway gas lamps sparkled to light as if by a Genesis command, igniting the town and rendering it sleepless. Spot assumed the same bit of nightlife preparation was being undertaken in Manhattan.
Several floors up silhouettes twirled like ghostly figures about a bonfire in the gothic windows. Countless silhouettes, a bouncing distortion of ambiguous figures, speeding off to the temple and rushing about for borscht and pumpernickel toast. The apartment complex is so crowded with working-class families that it almost buzzes like a beehive. Hence, a big-shot alderman coaxed his way some time ago into constructing two enormous new buildings on President Street and Georgia Avenue. To Spot’s mind, this displaced newly arrived immigrants further from their ancestral foundation in Williamsburg. But this shift east might lead to more integration with natives, which was always a gamble.
Not ten minutes later, Kate pranced out the front entry with dark brown curls and a small green ribbon holding pieces of hair back to frame her face, pulling a coat around her body. The girl’s clothes came from missionary barrels, so her outfits were usually unconventional to most people’s eyes. The coat in question looked tailored for a tall lady, but now it was wrapped around a skinny eighteen-year-old, patterned in light olive-grey with deep pockets. The ensemble cast an ethereal look to her person, and she half-resembled an Italian nymph or an Irish fairy, concocting magic potions and mayhem spells alike.
“Spot!” she shouted, smiling.
Spot hadn’t been in her company for about ten days, so he reached out to take her already outstretched hand and swung her around in a playful gesture until he finally gave her his arm and set to as though their childlike behavior had no witnesses. The girl chuckled, then fell into the calm that usually came upon them in moments like these – a calm like idle, iris-blue skies on June afternoons or cool, frivolous Friday evenings. The two surveyed the traffic in Hewes Street as they trekked toward the waterfront, keeping an eye out for trouble – Spot having learned from his family to keep his wits about him, and Kate having learned from lack-thereof to keep her wits about her. They saw libertines in iron-worker attire at the throws of poverty hurrying to fall further into bankruptcy in saloons, upstanding typists with the telltale signs of alcohol on their rosy cheeks scurrying to townhouses with their attaché cases and scandals.
“How’s work, or wherever it is you disappear to these days?”
“I prefer summer months to fall.” She’d met his interrogative with a vague reply of her own.
Spot turned to study her for a moment, caught on to her easy evade of what seemed like a simple question. Kate had changed how a tree grows taller, lusher, and full of life in the past few months. Her skin was fairer than it had been in July, but everything else had a touch of warmness. Her face was healthier, green eyes farther into the skull and astute, softly curled hair washed and styled, her cheeks rosy, and her steps more confident than Spot had ever known. To put it bluntly, Katherine Moore could persuade many Brooklyn men to do any bidding she desired on looks alone. This notion perturbed Spot. “The autumn job market is as useful to me as it is to ackruffs,” she mumbled, employing the slang word for river pirates. “I’m already running errands for five different shopkeepers. And none of them pay me what they’d pay a boy doing the same work.”
“That so?”
“I’m not put out enough to turn down the offers, but it’s stupidly unfair. Suppose I should be grateful they gave me all the time of day. It’s not that I don’t look elsewhere, Spot. The men hiring for secretaries and shopgirls claim they want madonnas, but they expect you to be a whore once you’re taken on. And I’ll never go for that lay, no matter how good the money. They’re the same men who are liable to fire you once you wind up pregnant, or they’ll take you to a doctor, all discrete-like because you had an understanding. Sure. The girls are under, and the men are standing. But you’re out on the street if anything comes of it.”
Spot couldn’t help but shudder at her words, the snide but truthful insinuation behind them. Kate caught his expression, as usual—nothing got past her—and by then, it was all in vain for Spot to comment on his doubts. If Spot had been a different type of fellow, perhaps Kate would’ve wound up with a stern lecture over the proper vocabulary of women. But he regularly kept me curious about her indulgence in slang and innuendo when they were together, letting her say whatever was on her mind. She wanted to be listened to, much like someone who’d gone most of their life ignored. And what she had to say, Spot learned, pertained a lot to union organizing and religion and—perhaps most taboo of all—women’s suffrage. But Spot would be lying if he said he didn’t agree with most of what she had to say on these matters. He couldn’t say the same for his fellow ex-newsies and current coworkers, not when careers and reputations were on the line. If he were to be a feminist, a unionist, or an apostate, he would be the quietist triple threat on the island. Such a notion both pleased and disturbed him.
“Most of them shop bosses have pews at Plymouth Congregational. Tell them you'll pray for their damnation if they don’t hire you.”
“Spot!” Kate laughed, lightly nudging his ribs. “You infidel.”
Spot leaned down a little so his lips were close to her head. “All jokes aside, it’s swell of you to come out with me tonight, considering how busy you are. You know I enjoy your company.”
“Just spit out whatever it is you want to say,” Kate urged, glaring at the young man.
She hadn’t looked him in the eyes that evening. Yet. Spot had wondered if his snakes for hair kept her head turned or if she feared he’d see how delighted she was by their reunion. He forced himself to put that to rest. They’d only made it ten minutes from the red-brick flat to Lucifer’s Oyster Saloon and Dance Hall, but Spot could see the ominous building on Bedford Avenue in the distance, with a hellish glow from the windows. Nothing from the street would indicate this was a saloon and dance hall, save for a drunk man sipping rum in front of a nondescript door. The chimneys of the nearby brewery had been cleaned to a dark sparkle and puffed out white smoke in the cold air. The steamboats along the waterfront churned like river trains, blowing their horns and rattling with shouts and laughter from their passengers. The whole scene resembled the image of a fast-moving dimension, a bizarre and exciting new frontier. The brewery alleyway and front walk were crawling with urchins while a few young men Spot recognized from the docks shouted playful jeers and took swigs from a shared bottle, delivering whacks about the head to children who tried for the barrels of beer.
“I’m just not used to taking ladies to places like this. My mates are all on-the-level navy yard pier boys who won’t strike without my saying so. But there are others I should warn you about. Muggs Tracey will fight the bloke who owns half the steel mills in Brooklyn. The fight was meant to raise money for a women’s charity, but now that Muggs is involved…see, this steel miller used to guard on Randall’s Island.”
Kate regarded Spot with concern. “Are you afraid someone will get beaten up in this fight? That’s generally the idea. I heard talk of it at that fancy dress shop Julia works in. Fine ladies are hedging their bets for Tracey’s favor, more than they had for Lightning Louis. If this fellow’s as vicious as they say, I’ll bet even Goliath would think twice about—”
“Word sure travels fast,” Spot grumbled. “Why should society women care?”
“The cause, of course. The Brooklyn Ladies’ Aid Society is a favorite of rich white women. Plus, the shop owner, Mrs. Baker, says Matthew Tracey’s a beauty from Hades, and Ms. Ruby Schermerhorn – oh, that’s Mrs. Schermerhorn’s profligate niece – she said she wouldn’t mind Mr. Tracey picking her up and throwing her to the floor and taking whatever he wished. Then the pair had a right giggle-fest about it, kittled as fuckin’ hens. You should’ve seen Julia’s face. She nearly dropped her tea tray. Overwrought with disgust, no doubt—”
“Okay, I get it. What’s our plan if things get violent?”
Kate turned to face him this time, peering into his steely eyes for the first time that evening. The light from the streetlamps cast a vivid radiance that haloed her curls. “Stay close to me, Spot. I’ll not let anyone harm you,” she teased. “If we stay sharp, we can avoid punches our way.”
“Bully. Let’s stick to it.”
Kate’s eyes lit up like a brilliant green firework as they headed into the saloon and dance hall.
“Whoa,” she breathed, lingering in the entryway.
The place looked different than Spot remembered from the last time he’d been there, only the last fourth of July. The owner always seemed to be renovating, and Spot had to give a double-take to the sign above the door to ensure he was at the correct joint. Satin garlands in red, white, and orange leaped like seasonal flames across the ceiling, where hung a large chandelier. Gothic paintings shrieked from the paneled walls, and whatever space wasn’t covered by tableaus was covered by mounted animal heads and hunting rifles and grotesque statues depicting mythological gods and creatures. The entire space from the hall to the saloon, except for the band on a small platform, was teeming with street toughs, Brooklyn Heights women, off-duty bulls, Italian and Irish immigrants standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Polish and Russian immigrants, locals, gangsters, petty thieves, vagabonds, pimps, and prostitutes, dressed more modestly than was custom due to the plummeting temperature. They were sipping on cups of all-sorts from giant hose-attached barrels. The floor was lined with Persian carpets to minimize casualties if any glasses or dishware should fall and shatter.
“How marvelous,” Kate breathed into the hellish glow.
“That’s one way to put it,” Spot agreed.
The dance hall portion was off to the side in a long rectangular shape with polished brass railing along the perimeter. Many guests were already whirling about the floor, a caravansary of dresses spinning and scuffed shoes hitting the wood in rhythmic steps. Spot reckoned that’s where the fight was to take place.
“Julia’s already here?”
“She’s around, I reckon. I’m sure she’ll find us. I wish you’d keep by my side while we’re here. I’d feel much safer,” he teased.
“No need for theatrics, I’ll protect you,” she played along, her features relaxing.
“Spot Conlon!” The young man in question recognized the cry for his attention. “Quite the psychiatric hospital tonight, ain’t it! Say, who’s the snow fairy at your side, by all means?”
Lion Valentino strolled over with two cups of all-sorts in his hands. He offered one to Kate without a second thought, giving her a wide, ridiculous smile. Like the Piscatory Ring, he wore a young lady’s gilded purity band on his right wedding finger. It was a trophy more than a symbol of godliness.
“Jesus Christ,” Spot whispered.
Kate peeked at Spot in amusement.
“That’s clean, right?” Spot replied. “Straight from the barrel. No cocaine shavings or benzene in the mix, Lion?”
“Clean as a convent, Conlon.”
“Right. Katherine Moore, this is Lion Valentino.”
Kate gave a wry grin, extending her hand for Lion to shake. The young man gently took her hand and kissed her knuckles. She looked as though she’d anticipated as much and threw back an impressive drink from the cup before wincing at the vile taste.
“Would you like help with your coat, Miss Moore?” Lion asked. “I’d like you to meet a few of my mates. Honorable gents, that sort. You have my word.”
Spot eyed Kate, trying to read her expression as well as she could read his. He didn’t want to pressure her if she felt nervous. He’d never do that. He also didn’t want to tell her what to do if she was game. He’d never do that, either. With another curious, do I dare look aimed Spot’s way, Kate had the loveliest inquisition flashing through her eyes.
“Unless you need me to safeguard your person,” Kate sighed, inspecting her nails in deliberate jest. “If you’re too scared to be left alone…”
“Knock yourself out,” Spot said.
Kate set to at once, smiling with her entire exquisite face. Before Lion could follow, Spot grabbed his wrist, squeezing deliberately.
“Treat her like your mother, or I’ll let Crazy Cohen know it was you his sister was attending to on her knees under the pier, got it?” Spot’s smile never ceased, and his eyes never stopped darting around the place as he said these words through his teeth.
“You always did drive a hard bargain, Conlon,” the former Manhattan newsie sighed, slightly horrified.
“Something to mull over.”
A fierce rumble of applause and expletives erupted from the dance floor as the band swelled up to a loud finish to the reel. Spot made out the likes of Muggs Tracey almost immediately, as the young man’s stature rivals that of Mose the Bowery B’hoy. He was at ease, facing the dance floor beside a gleaming grand piano where a girl ran her dainty fingers through his raven hair. She must’ve whispered something amusing, as she’d elicited that rare, hearty laughter from the burny-blowing demon, one that reached his glassy-green eyes – not crazed or constricted for once. He didn’t look any softer for it, though. He looked more unhinged than before.
“You’ve got a lot of misplaced nerve, don’t you?” Spot said to Muggs once he was within earshot. “Hey, Julia. What do you know, what do you say?”
Julia Hawthorne, or Jules as Muggs was fond of calling her, sent Spot a brief but sincere grin. She’s a fit, stylish, arrestingly beautiful young woman of Fifth Avenue breeding, with soft features about a feminine face, blonde hair, and intensely blue irises. Bluer than Spot’s, about as blue as a summer sky. She sported a high-necked blouse of white cotton with machine lace and hand embroidery and a lilac linen skirt, one of her better ones. She sat in complete contrast with Muggs’ castaway attire, looking like he’d been out to sea in a hurricane with his popped collar and ill-repair togs. Spot had an easier time reading Julia than he did Kate, as he’d had more extended practice at it, and right now, she looked like she’d been given a free pass to a disaster. He’d interrupted a dispute, as the air was still thick with tension and words left unsaid. Bitter words. Spot didn’t blame Julia one iota for her bitterness toward Muggs despite their fooling around for months. But as he drew nearer, Spot realized he might’ve walked into something more hostile and desperate rather than another ‘you’re a godforsaken degenerate’ argument.
“Gazing upon you, Spot Conlon and my night is complete with fools,” Julia hummed. Her tone indicated to Spot just how salty she was. Julia was raised in a poised and polite society and taught how to make idle small talk in the presence of nobility, but it was rare that she honed those habits around Spot. He knew she was as lost to that world as Kate, partly by her running away, so the arrogant voice she’d taken on puzzled Spot where he stood. “I’ll answer you since Muggs’ clinical insanity is often mistaken for nerve. Ours is not to reason why. Ours is but to do or die.”
“Fair,” Spot replied.
“As for my health, thank you for asking. I am perfectly copacetic and honored to witness such a reckless endeavor—a prize fight. Perhaps for the next soirée, we could let a wild boar loose inside Delmonico’s. But I suppose it wouldn’t elicit the same titillation as watching two bare-chested addlepates bash each other bloody for a battered women’s charity. Don’t let’s ignore the irony.”
Muggs frowned, looking like he hadn’t slept through the night in days. “Conlon, talk some sense into her. She’s been sour all evening.”
Spot came dangerously close to smirking. It was a rare thing to see Muggs hanging from the ropes by the likes of an equally formidable woman. “What more sense does she need?”
“Tell her I’ve always held my own in the ring better than any blood-red fancy, cocksure pugilist. I got my name from it, for Christ's sake.”
“Why do you insist on speaking a language you know I’m not fluent in,” Julia interrupted as more of an observation than a question, her voice sharp enough to scratch a chalkboard. “And I’m not talking about Russian.”
By the sound of it, the scowling devil wouldn’t be going anywhere near Julia’s bedroom that night. “Muggs says he has every confidence he’ll win.” Spot thought back to what Kate had said on the walk over. “And others seem to agree.”
“Please. The women favor his odds because he’s pretty. The men wager the steel mill foreman ‘can do.’ They used to call him the Bloodhound, I hear.”
“That ain’t a pugilist’s title,” Muggs huffed. “He got that name ‘cause it kittled him to track down anyone who escaped the House of Refuge, bring the squeaker back kicking and screaming, and then beat the breath out of the poor thing.”
“Well, what will a felony do for that now?”
“Lord have mercy, Jules, I ain’t going to kill him. This is for charity. Anyway, there are too many witnesses for me to pull off such a lay, even if I wanted to.” Muggs rubbed his weary eyes in apparent exasperation. “And it’s decided. I’m more than capable.”
“Bite my tongue, then. I didn’t realize bare-knuckle scraps with boys in the lodging house, the Refuge, or back alleys qualified you to spar with a professional bruiser and an important community leader. I’m sorry for doubting your prowess.”
“Not sure I accept that little miss,” Muggs spat.
Julia Hawthorne slammed the wooden cover over the piano keys with an echo throughout the instrument, shifting to face Muggs with a blood-chilling smirk. “And what if you win?”
“What?”
“What if you win?” She repeated slowly, her words dripping with warning. “Against a rich man with more sway in this part of the city than a damn Astor. You’re meant to lose. Don’t you get it? You'll pay for it if he looks like a weak little dandy. I don’t know how, but you already have an extensive rap sheet. So, after you’ve beaten him to a gory mess, don’t come round to my place for a bath or a bed. I want nothing to do with whatever mess this will cause.”
Muggs’ mouth twitched, fury mixed with wounded ego clenching his jaw tight like a screw. Suddenly, he pushed off the piano, running a hand through his messy hair. Spot could tell something had caught his erratic attention from across the room.
“If you weren’t a girl, I’d set you right,” Muggs said to Julia clearly. “Low trick to get inside a fellow’s head like that. Why did you come tonight if you felt so strongly about it?”
Muggs was gone before anything more could be said, abandoning a pair of highly displeased persons in his wake.
“Sweet Jesus, Conlon, do me a favor and tell me why I ever found him charming,” Julia groaned, crumpling against the vital cover and holding her head in her hands. Her long piano fingers were manicured and free of grime. Spot had never seen a speck of dirt underneath her nails for as long as he’d known her.
“He didn’t tell you he was doing this, did he?”
“Left me in the complete dark. How about you?”
“Same here.”
“Wonderful. How do we stop it?”
Spot’s mouth curved in understanding at her frustration. His and Muggs’ ongoing boyhood rivalry should’ve bittered him to the fact that Julia now welcomed her bed to Muggs after she’d once welcomed it to Spot. But Julia was a worthy, clever, fiery-tongued woman and bosom friend to Kate, and Muggs was a cocaine-fueled hellion who lives by no moral code save for what pleases him and what feeds him. Aside from his proficiency in two languages, Muggs Tracey was unforgivable, and Julia Hawthorne…well, Julia Hawthorne was a mystery.
Perhaps part of the mystery, Spot realized, was why Muggs appeared drug-starved. There is no evidence of cocaine whatsoever in his system. He wasn’t hopping about like a madman. His pupils were dilated for once, and he wasn’t resurrecting his tin of powder at every convenience. And he had the shakes to prove it. Perhaps that was Julia’s doing. Spot figured that was a fair hypothesis in the making.
Finally, he caught precisely who Muggs had clocked from a distance and felt a sheet of goosebumps prickle his skin.
“Aw, shit,” Spot mumbled.
Samuel Burke was on the floor, bowler hat clutched at his side, with mustache, sideburns, and beard grooming to style, conversing merrily as if he were governor of New York.
“Don’t be fooled. There’s a lot of power behind that jolly façade. There hasn’t been a strike in his mills since he took management.”
Spot looked to Julia, who was twirling a lock of hair in worry. He didn’t have to be told twice who Samuel Burke was. He vaguely remembered the ex-guard from Randall’s Island – the memory of him fading ever more into the distance each day. But he’d heard plenty of unscrupulous horror stories of inmates being restrained to beds in the dormitories, alongside a heavy dose of chloral hydrate and medicinal syrups, and Snyder’s blind eye to Burke’s nightly antics.
If you screamed, he’d bust your lip open, Leah Kessler, a former Refuge inmate, had told Spot over a few pints at Irving Hall. That’s what this beast of a man—this successful mill foreman, the one who rubbed elbows with the likes of influential political figures—had done to the girls on Randall’s Island. And the ones who complained to Snyder disappeared, Leah, had furthered simply as if transference to an ulterior facility was a commonplace silencer. Julia’s warning carried little weight, as Spot knew exactly what Burke and his constituents were about—making girls disappear off the island like a magic trick. Spot wouldn’t put that notion out of his head any time soon. He’d heard enough accounts from a tipsy Leah to form a miserable picture. Accounts that haunted his dreams. That reminded him of his lousy stint there. Memories, while not tangible to the living, had the power to kill one’s mind.
“I can count on my hand how many people I’ve had an instant dislike for,” Spot confessed. “Medda Larkson comes to mind. And now him.”
Anxiety carved a crease in Julia’s otherwise smooth forehead. “I’d say that judgment’s more than apt. Burke is a reprobate. He comes for a drink at my bar every so often, and he always causes an awful stir, usually involving a young lady—”
“If I could have the attention of all you lovely folks this side of the bridge!” roared the familiar voice that Spot associated with the ferocious battle cry in the lodging house from when he was small. “I would like to show my gratitude for your being here tonight, supporting me, supporting a worthy cause, and supporting the borough we all hold dear!”
Spot and Julia turned to face the dance hall portion of the saloon, finding Muggs at the center with his long, branch-like arms raised above his head to command the room's attention. His face glowed with perspire, his stance indicating one of two things: either ‘I have every capability of crushing your bones to dust’ to the men and ‘Aren’t I the loftiest rogue you’ve ever seen’ to the ladies. It worked a little too well for him—based on the expressions in the crowd.
“After all, ain’t charity and compassion the spirit of the evening? The kind that gives our women shelter, employment, friendship, and respect,” Muggs shouted to the enchanted audience. “I know most of you have already made generous donations to the Brooklyn Ladies’ Aid Society, so generous I hear a certain steel mill boss withdrew his donation, figuring it wasn’t needed after all.” His gleaming, wolfish grin spread across his face and accentuated the boyish dimples—the same terrifying smile that commanded newsies to jump into the river to sink and hot-corn girls to lift their skirts to Heaven. “Ain’t that bully of him to leave the effort up to you, as we’ve plenty of dough to go round. Wouldn’t want to trouble the broke son of a bitch for a loan, would we?”
Masculine cheers and feminine laughter echoed through the hall in a delighted uproar as the libertine men pulled their hourglass-figured scarlet women closer. Spot’s eyes were focused on Burke, who was surveying the scene with folded arms—arrogant, annoyed, impenetrable.
“But I know all you folks know the right way to treat a lady,” Muggs went on, taking a glass of all-sorts from a striking, red-haired Brooklyn Heights young woman with a neckline so plunging Spot was sure even most prostitutes would gawk. He leaned down to tuck a strand of loose hair behind her ear, encouraging several in the crowd to jeer suggestively. “We don’t stand for violence against women of any stripe. And especially not by those sworn to be the most benevolent and honorable in their care.”
Shouts in agreement exploded. Spot wasn’t sure what jolted him first, the crowd's roar or the adrenaline rush down his spine.
“Think of your mothers or sisters or your wives,” Muggs thundered, his wicked irises never resting on one person for more than a millisecond. “Think of the world we live in now, where electric lights extend the days, street cars operate without rest, and we can speak to someone in St. Louis through a machine as though they’re in the next room. However, many still scorn our women for seeking higher education as we look away. So many still berate them with stones and rotten fruit for demanding safer conditions while they picket peacefully as we look away. So many still strike our women with bats and fists when they march to vote as we look away. So many still lock our women in asylums to be quarantined for madness when they flee from the houses of cruel keepers. As we look away.”
Spot felt delicate fingers find his hand, gripping it tightly. Looking pale and winded, Julia was watching the display, transfixed, and Spot instantly knew those were her words on Muggs’ tongue. “Tell me it’s not real,” she whispered. “He’s not actually…”
Flicking his eyes back to Burke, Spot felt his stomach drop like an Otis elevator on the top floor. Burke’s sleeves were rolled up, and his fists were clenched at his sides. His expression was vinegary as he glared at Muggs. It was true, acid-bubbling hatred that only one of Snyder’s lackeys could muster.
“Now, I can’t speak for the lot of you ladies gathered here today, but I can tell you what I think of you,” Muggs called. “You’re some of the bravest, hardest-working gals—married or independent, as all hell-deserving of fair wages for your industry, and woe to the sweat-shop, a slavocrat villain who asks what for.”
More brazen cheers rang out.
“And my fellow men, I know you to be the most ardent supporters of your ladyfolk’s success and pleasure. You savvy it’s well-owed for their tireless and continued support of yours.”
Clarion calls and whistles and applause deafened the hall.
“This very assembly of brothers and sisters would rather wage war than kowtow to belligerent brutes who fancy it a fair sport to beat on women who’ve never once asked for anything but an honest seat at the table. No longer will we tolerate the scum-eating vultures who prey on poverty, on vulnerability, on ignorance to keep Brooklyn’s women down—or any women of New York, for that matter!”
The air, hotter and more blazing than a cargo ship’s furnace, shouted its solidarity. The Brooklyn Ladies’ Aid Society representatives looked fit to parade the scoundrel around like a king. Spot felt Julia’s left hand squeeze ever tighter to his right.
“Come on,” she whispered cagily, her eyes locked on Muggs. “Give it up, now…”
“So, it is my honor, dear Brooklyn,” Muggs concluded, “that I present to you the person who is responsible, for not only the vicious suppression of organizing among his workers at present, for not only hiring himself out as a violent strikebreaker for future pickets but for also savagely beating and raping scores of little girls at the House of Refuge in years prior—the venerated gentleman himself, Samuel Burke!”
Shocked cries erupted from the watery-eyed half of the room while hisses of contempt erupted from the rage-fueled other half. Spot felt Julia’s hand leave him as though she’d been burned, and he subsequently raised the lonely hand to his mouth and bit his knuckles.
Muggs Tracey, Spot decided a little too late and has gone mad.
When the thunderous applause and disharmony of the shouts rose to a crescendo, Muggs carefully began to strip his clothes from the waist up as the partygoers whistled and cheered in fervor. His beat-up jacket, ragged button-down, worn Henley, and moth-eaten undershirt came off. The same red-haired girl who’d offered him the glass of all sorts thought it a privilege to collect his discarded garments, which she neatly folded and placed on a nearby chair. Spot caught sight of the now pink-in-the-face Burke, who was standing with his hands on his hips as he watched Muggs, bare-chested and bloodthirsty, approach him.
“There now, I’ve stood and delivered, Burke. Are we still for the fight?” Muggs demanded. “It’s for charity, after all.”
Samuel Burke straightened his waistcoat firmly as though stripping to his waist was the farthest thing on his to-do list. He took not a step toward nor away from Muggs. But he did grin, moving his mustache, beard, and sideburns along with his lips.
“I will not stoop to the likes of drunken mocking, nor will it slander me,” Burke shouted over the noise coolly, “Especially not by an ex-convict and a cocaine fiend. This gathering of fine women doesn’t want a carnivorous display of barbarism.”
Muggs appeared bored, lazily running his fingers through sweaty hair. “You should ask the fine women what they want for a change.”
The hoots of approval increased, getting ever more daring. A good handful in the crowd were silent, clearly cronies of Burke’s or otherwise establishment puppets. Burke appealed to them with a cheerful nod. “These shameless, melodramatic larks are beneath me, and as such, I no longer have any business entertaining this barbarian further! Nor shall I be suffered to silence at such unfounded claims that are nothing more than the bitter grumblings of a—"
“You suffered my little sister to silence after you fucked her, you miserable, sick bastard,” Muggs snarled with a ferocious glare and an intimidating step toward Burke.
The dance hall lost its mind, escalating into a howling pandemonium of noise. Spot then realized how easily the crowd had been willing to take Muggs’ word. They were willing to take the side of a narcotic-addicted crazed rabbit over a relatively prosperous man of authority. Women hissed and stomped their feet. Men shouted all kinds of character-defeating jeers. Terse suggestions were tossed about regarding Burke’s morals, the nature of the bumps on his skull, and the size of his male anatomy.
Burke had grown quiet, holding his ground with composure. The color of his face had gone from red humiliation to drained entirely of blood. It was like a calm before the storm, and Spot could tell he’d realized who Muggs was and who the little sister in question was.
“I ask you again, are we still for the fight?” Muggs demanded once more, employing Burke’s words. “Or don’t you have the sand to humor the likes of an ex-convict and a cocaine fiend?”
“You’re looking for a fight, Matthew Tracey?” Burke roared. “Then a fight is what you shall have. But it won’t just be me. You’ll meet me in the arena. I leave that as fair warning.”
And with that, Burke pivoted toward the exit and stormed off. The rest of his associates hurried after him. The remaining majority on the dance floor shouted cheers in an admiring show that Spot swore he had hallucinated. It was as though they’d witnessed Theodore Roosevelt charging up San Juan Hill in the flesh. Muggs fetched his dirty Henley from the chair and shrugged it on, making no effort to fully re-dress with the rest and allowing a swarm of dead rabbits, Brooklyn coves, and harbor toughs to congratulate him. Several women, including the alluring redhead, kiss him on any free real estate of his face—much to the wolf-whistles of the others.
But not everyone was swept up in the daydream.
“What the hell just happened,” Spot mumbled to no one. It wasn’t even a question.
“I’m at a loss.” Julia’s voice had a startled tremor that Spot didn’t recognize. “But I second your question. What’s more, I command an answer.”
Then she was gone, out of her seat, and off to the bar for a round of shots, Spot reckoned.
Too stunned to comprehend what had happened, Spot began a mad search for Katherine Moore. He finally found her in a cozy nook of a table with two empty pints beside her, surrounded by former newsies and bootblacks, many of whom Spot recognized. They appeared to be enamored by whatever she had just told them. She kept peering at the chaos on the dance floor as it unfolded with an expression of disturbed awe, splitting her focus between Muggs’ intoxicated idiocies and being listened to by the young men like some ancient sage. Lion sat with Kate’s grey-green coat in his lap as if it were just as good as the real thing, but he seemed respectfully keen to her words, nodding in reverence. It made Spot want to both slap him and salute him.
“Lion,” Spot said, “how much did you give her to drink—”
“She poured those herself,” came Lion’s quick reply. “I ain’t never seen a moll drink so much.”
“That’s because—"
Spot nearly choked on his words. His gaze had shifted back to the hullaballoo around Muggs.
A strange man was in the hall doorway—removed from the crowd in both attire and disposition—gazing silent daggers from Muggs to Julia and then at someone else beyond Spot. Turning, Spot searched for who that person might be and found nothing but Kate’s radiant, dazzling eyes as she laughed at a ridiculous joke Lion told. But the mysterious stranger had vanished when Spot looked at the door again.
Slang & Reference Glossary:
Golden Rule Pleasure Club - located in the rear house of 133 West 3rd Street in Manhattan, the Golden Rule was a saloon & disorderly house of young male prostitutes that catered to male clientele.
Billfold – wallet, typically made of leather, especially a thin one with few compartments.
Pugilist – a boxer, especially a professional one.
Roundsman – a police officer in charge of a patrol.
Sisters of Mercy - Roman Catholic religious congregation founded in Dublin. Women of this religious order take vows of poverty, chastity, obedience, and service to the poor, sick, and uneducated. They ran several schools in New York.
Knights of Columbus – global Catholic fraternal service order founded in 1882.
Hansom – also called a “shoful,” a street cab. This favorite carriage was invented by Mr. Hansom, who later connected it with the Builder newspaper. It has been asserted that the term “soul” was derived from “shovel,” the earliest slang term applied to Hansoms by other cab drivers, who conceived their shape to be after the fashion of a scoop or shovel.
Missionary barrels – missionary barrels were filled by the Women’s Home Missionary Societies and shipped to the mission field after arrangements had been made with the secretaries at the main office – known as the Bible House (located on Astor Place in New York City) – to guard against duplication of gifts. They provided clothes for all sexes and ages, mainly for children and teenagers. Other items included books, toys, yarns, fabrics, and food.
Ackruffs – river pirates or river thieves. It’s a play on the words Ark Ruffians, who robbed and murdered on fresh water. This term would’ve been rare by 1900.
Keep mouse – to be quiet, be still, talk low, whisper, step light, make no noise, or keep something a secret. It comes from the expression, “as quiet as a mouse.”
Plymouth Congregational – Protestant Christian church (Congregational). A popular branch of Christianity in New England at the turn of the century.
Swell – excellent, very good, splendid. Anything remarkable for its beauty or elegance. It can also mean stylish, gentlemanly, or ladylike.
On the level – honest, honorable, truthful.
Bloke – a man
Randall’s Island – location of the New York House of Refuge, a juvenile reformatory, in the East River after 1852.
Ladies’ aid societies were initially founded during the American Civil War to provide supplies to soldiers on the battlefield and care for the sick and wounded. After the war, ladies’ aid societies took on other charities to help hospitals, war veterans, homeless children, widows, battered women, and girls’ education.
Schermerhorn family – prominent, wealthy, old New York City socialite family to which Caroline Astor belonged.
Looker from Hades – a beautiful person with wicked habits. It usually refers to a gangster.
Kittle – to tickle. Often used in the form of “kittled as pie.”
Bully – correct, very good, excellent. It can also refer to a braggart or a pimp.
All-sorts – an alcoholic beverage comprising mixed remnants of various liquors used in taverns or beer shops.
And how – very much so. They are used to express strong agreement.
Madhouse – a scene of extreme confusion or uproar, bedlam, chaos.
Say – hey. It expresses surprise or draws attention to a remark or question.
Snow-fairy – a variant of the term “snow-fayre,” said of a woman who has a pretty face or is comely.
By all means – of course, indeed, to grant permission.
The Piscatory Ring – the Ring of the Fisherman- is part of the official Pope regalia.
Mull over – to give serious and careful thought to.
Mose the Bowery B’Hoy – a volunteer fireman, Mose was a larger-than-life folk hero who thrilled working-class Bowery audiences with his street fighting and fire rescue exploits. His stylish girlfriend was the character Lize the Bowery G’Hal.
Burny-blower – a cocaine user. Usually, referring to a person with an addiction. Derived from the way cocaine burns the nose when snorted.
What do you know, what do you say – informal greeting. On par with “What’s up.” It can also imply one is asking for another’s opinion.
Togs – clothes.
Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to do or die – a variation of a quote from the 1854 poem, “The Charge of the Light Brigade” by Tennyson.
Copacetic – in excellent order.
Delmonico’s – New York City restaurant favored by upper-class patrons.
Addlepate – a foolish fellow, a dullard.
Blood-red fancy – a particular red handkerchief sometimes worn by pugilists and frequenters of prize fights.
Cocksure – sure, confident.
Can do – a certainty, implying a win. It usually refers to horse racing.
Squeaker – a child.
Lay – a plan, pursuit, practice, or dodge. Often criminal.
Dandy – a fop or a fashionable nondescript. Dandies wear stays and follow feminine style.
Chloral hydrate – a colorless crystalline solid made from chloral and used as a sedative.
Hot-corn girls – girl street vendors, usually attractive, sold hot corn on city streets in New York, Boston, and Philadelphia. They were often mistaken for prostitutes.
Slavocrat – a slaveholder or an advocate for slavery. They are used before and during the American Civil War.
What for – for what purpose or reason, why?
Savvy – to know or understand.
Sand – grit, determination, guts, moxie.
Dead Rabbit – a tough guy, brawler, ruffian, and hooligan.
Cove – a boy or man of any age or station.
Tough – a rough or violent young person, especially a gangster or criminal.
Moll – a girl. Usually, they refer to a girlfriend or a female associate of criminals. Derived as a nickname from the popular girl’s name, “Mary.”
Chapter 3: Lucifer's Oyster Saloon
Summary:
“Spot!” Kate exclaimed as he hurried her away from the table. “What the hell—”
“I’m very sorry. I know it hasn’t been long, but we’ll call it a night. Tracey is incurably certifiable, and Mr. Burke is dangerous.”
Notes:
Please note: This chapter may include language, themes, and situations reflective of the time it is set, which some readers may find offensive. Reader discretion is advised. The author intends to create a vivid and immersive experience without belittling or misrepresenting the complexities of the period.
Chapter Text
January 1902
Brooklyn, NY
The mysterious swell at the door had vanished, but a most elegant woman of noble stature was in his place. Spot had to give a double-take to ensure she was indeed who he thought she was and not the angel of death: Mrs. Nell Anderson, the witch of Randall’s Island in the flesh. Spot didn’t have time to hatch a plan. Her delicate mouth was pursed into a little smirk – lips plump and red as cherries. Her unblemished figure was draped in a red satin dress with a beaded shawl around her upper arms. Her fair hair was done up in a sophisticated archipelago style. The rest of her dainty features were twisted in that coy façade that made a fellow want to flirt with a guillotine from beneath the blade. No, there wasn’t time for deliberation when Spot recognized Nell Anderson.
He acted immediately. He’d encountered her many times before, as she was somewhat of an infamous figure in Brooklyn’s underworld. On his second stay in the House of Refuge, he'd first made her acquaintance but saw little of her in the dark throws of that cold chasm. She, by contrast, seemed to know him as if he were an old friend.
Snatching her coat from Lion, Spot took Kate’s arm in his, practically hugging her close to his side in record time.
“What gives, Spot?” Lion griped. “I told you I didn’t—”
“She-devil,” Spot mumbled in return.
Shifting to follow Spot’s inclined head nod, Lion swallowed hard—able to recognize Nell Anderson in a dark alley, as if by scent alone. Mrs. Anderson was no longer a matron in the House of Refuge, that’s to be specific. And in the same way, she’d been infatuated with Grim, she’d been fascinated with Muggs – to the utmost degree, she could become infatuated with anyone. It was best to assume the worst concerning Penelope Anderson. Spot hadn’t the slightest idea why she was at Lucifer’s Oyster Saloon and Dance Hall that evening. Nell Anderson was no outsider to the criminal class and had her slender fingers in the pockets of police officers, gangsters, and politicians alike. But impractical, she was not—despite how impractical it seemed for her to come floating about these parts on the night Muggs Tracey was meant to fight Samuel Burke.
“Spot!” Kate exclaimed as he hurried her away from the table. “What the hell—”
“I’m very sorry. I know it hasn’t been long, but we’ll call it a night. Tracey is incurably certifiable, and Mr. Burke is dangerous.”
“Muggs?” Kate objected, annoyed. “Besides you, Muggs is one of the most fearsome rabbits I’ve ever seen. That yellow-bellied gent took off like a shot because he was a coward—"
Spot paused next to a group of Brooklyn Ladies’ Aid Society representatives and took Kate gently by her shoulders, leaning down slightly. Alarmed, she stared back.
“You know I care about you, right?”
Her smooth skin flashed a burst of irritation. “What kind of question is—”
“Don’t get upset, I’m begging,” Spot said. “It’s time for you to go home.”
Furious, Kate went limp as Spot dragged her along. Spot made his way over to the bar like he was trying to get to the right train platform, the saloon dauntingly empty of guests who were all in the dance hall. A barmaid herself, Julia knocked back a large glass of all sorts, her acerbic blue eyes casting spells on Muggs from a distance.
“Julia, we finally found you. See, Kate, I told you she was here somewhere.”
Julia tore her eyes away from Muggs. Upon seeing Kate, she pulled herself together impressively fast, giving an over-the-top curtsey as if she’d completed a performance.
“Sunshine, I meant to come looking for you. Were those boys on their best behavior, then?”
“They were aces, Julia. Pouring shots of all sorts like water, but…” Kate sneered up at Spot when she saw his jaw clench. “But I turned them down after the first. The taste is disgusting. So, I stuck to my pints of ale.”
“All-sorts is the devil's drink, and it tastes worse than tar, so I don’t blame you, " Julia coolly amended.
“Would you take Kate back to your place? You’d be doing me a tremendous favor,” Spot asked quietly.
“What? I don’t want to go just yet,” Kate dissented.
Julia’s eyebrows furrowed in matched disapproval. “I wasn’t intending on—”
“Julia,” Spot said, taking her away momentarily and slipping her hansom fare. “I need you to get her out of here discretely. Quick. Take her to a magic lantern show, or a vaudeville theater, or for an egg cream. Anywhere, but make sure she goes home with you safely. I owe you one—”
“Spot,” Julia cut him off, stuffing the cab fare back into Spot’s coat pocket with a stoic sigh, “you don’t have to bribe me to get my best friend home safely.”
Julia made her way back to Kate. She looked more elegant in her approach than Lion and extended her arm to the younger girl. She moved close to mumble, “The men here have no semblance of manners or dignity. Frankly, they aren’t much to look at anymore. What say you, my wild Irish rose?”
Shooting Spot a blazing glare, Kate’s eyebrows genuflected in indifference.
“It seems our alluring presence is no longer in vogue this evening. Have you ever been to a midnight salon, sunshine?”
“What’s that?” Kate asked, soft features vivifying.
“Blasphemy. We must set to right this unfortunate mistake in your slum refinement. Farewell, Spot,” she called, then flounced away pleasantly hurriedly for the saloon's back door.
Feeling his heart rate return to normal, Spot pivoted with caution. Skirts of ruby and emerald and cornsilk danced around his frame, almost tripping him. But he’d lost track of the blood-red dress with a sharp sparkle wrap about porcelain arms. The pitiless grey-blue eyes set deep in a heart-shaped face. Spot wondered if she, too, had vanished into thin air.
That’s when the violently violet perfume overwhelmed his nose, and sharp nails traced his forearm, prompting Spot to turn in her direction.
“Thomas Conlon.” Nell Anderson’s eyes dragged their snake-like way over Spot’s frame like she was a dressmaker surveying her model. Curious, eager. “It looks as though Matthew Tracey has just transformed the whole astonishing endeavor for Mr. Burke.”
“Astonishing. Not exactly how I’d put it.”
“Noble?” she suggested, smirking. “Daring?”
“Mrs. Anderson, what in God’s name are you doing here?”
The witch’s expression turned into a flattered blush and a frown. It was a strange result, but then again, she never had much soul in those eyes, so what’s to say? The rest of her face would be well-versed in appropriate emotion. “Why must you always be so unhappy with me? We never had cause to quarrel, did we, Thomas? Besides, it isn’t becoming to your conscience to harbor such contempt whenever we meet.”
“My conscience is none of your concern after all you’ve done on Randall’s Island. You’re the one who haunted the older boys’ dormitory, sent girls out west to live as domestics, tried to throw Jack Kelly in Sing Sing, tried to get my stay extended, ruined Miles Krause’s life—”
“Your ability to feud is unmatched.” She hummed in exasperation, pulling her shimmering shawl tighter. “I thought you were a Catholic boy, keen to forgive and show mercy. What’s more, I thought you knew better than to treat a proper lady with such hatred.”
Spot said nothing. He had no patience for a proper lady who had taken her post in the House of Refuge the week before he was meant to be released and then tried to frame him for stealing cigarettes to increase his sentence. And she’d almost succeeded had Snyder believed her.
She fluttered her dark eyelashes most innocently. “Very well. I’ll not trouble you for much.”
“I already regret asking, but what are you troubling me for?”
“Your company,” she said evenly. “Would you be kind enough to walk me home? I want a word with you privately. Do you think wicked Matthew Tracey will notice your absence, Thomas?”
Her gorgeous Taylor Street disorderly house was a little over fifteen minutes in walking distance away from Lucifer’s Oyster Saloon. Maybe ten minutes with a brisk step. But Spot knew there was truth to her words – Muggs wasn’t even thinking about him. He was now reclining on a crimson sofa with his Henley unbuttoned, the hourglass red-haired turtledove nearly straddling him, while the other Brooklyn coves and toughs waited on him like an ancient pharaoh. They may as well have fanned him with ostrich feathers and kissed his feet for good measure. The glamorous moll on his lap looked friendly enough, enthusiastic to give Muggs a place to sleep for the night. Spot reckoned it would be the last he ever saw of her. He didn’t think Muggs slept with the same person more than once, except for Julia Hawthorne and Nell Anderson. And by a more distant and orgy-like proxy, Alexei Morozov. He regularly bedded Julia because he wanted to. He had periodically bedded Nell because he didn’t.
At the same time, Spot was painfully intrigued. Nell Anderson always played with a hand of extra cards and was not ashamed to flaunt her cheating in front of her opponents.
“Lead the way,” Spot said, shrugging.
Mrs. Anderson spun for the door. Spot trailed behind. Several eyebrows were raised in their direction, captivated – a beautiful woman involved in politics and charity made her somewhat of a minor celebrity, never mind that she’d acquired scores of affluent clientele for her business. A moment later, they’d side-stepped by the alley between the saloon and the brewery, still teeming with street urchins fighting one another for tossed nickels as dockside workers watched in amusement. They walked east a block beneath a starless night – colder than the river and oddly electrified. Williamsburg is a cleaner part of Brooklyn. It’s mainly residential, with parks and benches, manicured apartments, and respectable butcheries and bakeries. However, on Taylor Street, a row of furtive disorderly houses, distinct by their half-closed mauve curtains and jade-glowing gas lamps, employ women not looking to toil all day in a sweatshop.
“I am not perturbed that Matthew’s humiliated Samuel Burke, not in the least,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Samuel’s…past? He’s not the most sainted man among them.”
Spot was not shocked she’d had an affair with the former guard, and he wasn’t surprised she knew precisely why Burke was a sworn enemy to her newest obsession. “His higher-ups at the mill won’t take too kindly.”
“I should say not. Even if you don’t believe me, Samuel is a terrible businessman,” she admitted, the melancholy glare of a contained barrel fire on the sidewalk illuminating the attractive curls of her piled-high tresses.
“Does this have something to do with Muggs inciting the crowd?”
“Perhaps. Your friend is an extraordinary young man and someone I am pleased to know or have known. I suppose he had a way about him that made me feel special, and I miss him for that.” She ducked her head like she was overtaken with childlike embarrassment.
“We ain’t having high tea in Greenwich Village. Out with it.”
Looking aggravated, Mrs. Anderson brought her gaze back up to his. “You could at least pretend to be less of a condescending ass like your friend, for Heaven’s sake. Samuel Burke is the right-hand of my boss.”
Spot paused for a second, slowing his pace. That tickled Nell Anderson so much she emitted a beautiful, warbling giggle like a porcelain tub full of venom.
“Are you taking my meaning, Thomas, or would you like me to rephrase?”
“No thanks,” Spot said, following. “You’ve got ties to lots of wealthy folks in this city. So, as long as you make money, you’ll side with whoever’s paying it. Burke is your boss’ right hand and wants Muggs quiet, and you can’t afford to upset him. But we all know you want Muggs to yourself when it suits you when you’re not trying to sabotage his relationships or have him arrested again. Does that track to your satisfaction?”
“Partly, it does. I must say you have a quick-working mind in that head of yours.”
“Anything more?”
“There’s been a bit of mischief by the river. It seems Burke’s workers in that mill, and subsequently his boss’s workers, are being agitated to organize, and that agitation is already turning into mutiny. My business has, consequently, lost funding from Burke and his superiors, as it’s now been redirected to hire scab workers and make up for lost production.”
Spot’s quick-working mind did a few somersaults to decipher her words. “So? Burke’s pissed off a lot of people in his day. Maybe someone’s trying to stir up his workers for a reason.”
Mrs. Anderson shrugged, her grey eyes sparkling like hellfire. “Samuel likes his cat and mouse games, it must be said. But only when he’s the cat. I have no doubt he’s made a sizeable number of adversaries in that wake. But after his transfer from Randall’s Island, he came into a bountiful amount of money, and he’s since had no issue paying off whoever he chooses.”
“Money, no matter how bloody, can buy anything or anyone you want in this city.”
Her lips twitched pleasantly. “They told me you had a way with words, Thomas. It’s one of the things I like about you. I don’t like your constant need to get involved when it doesn’t concern you. I heard all about the ’99 strike.”
“I didn’t walk you home to be liked.”
“Well, now I want your handsome self to get involved,” she whispered, accidentally letting the pretty mask slip and displaying the witch beneath.
“You want me to get Muggs to take back what he said?” Spot asked.
“Rather, I need you to get him to return what he said. And what's more, persuade him so he volunteers to be an example.” She nodded to the disorderly house they were swiftly reaching. The refined outside disguised the debauchery that went on inside. “I know you don’t wish to, as you’ve always played the role of the apathetic muscle who never takes a radical side. But you will take this one, nonetheless.”
“What for?”
“If Burke loses money from these preemptive strikes, you’ll displace me from my home. Not only that, but you’ll also be displacing sixteen girls and three servants, too, Thomas. That’s twenty people homeless. And I have one more ace as to your what for.”
“You couldn’t buy my help if you had more dough than J.P. fuckin’ Morgan.”
“Oh my,” she breathed, giggling tenderly. “Truer words were never spoken. Though I must ask, who was your escort tonight? Pretty little doll, rather dignified. She looked to be an effervescent temptress if ever I saw one.”
Spot bit his tongue. His mouth tasted sour for a moment.
Nell Anderson sighed as she studied her fingers as if the forty-year-old woman had nothing better to do than reassess her nail grooming. “She looked…so comfortable among all those boys. Almost as though she’d been paid to kittle them. I say she’d make a wonderful addition to my establishment in Queens. I hear they like girls with a little spark.” Pouting, she tugged at her luxurious fur coat. “Her skirt was too long. And she was much too skinny. I wonder if she would need to make easy money?”
Spot’s boots scuffed against the cobblestone, processing the thinly masqueraded insinuation Nell Anderson had just made at Katherine Moore. It took all Spot had to keep a cool head. Even if he jumped into the frigid river, he’d have a difficult go of it. Kate being weaponized as a threat had him swallowing down razor blades where he stood. Spot grabbed Mrs. Anderson roughly by her wrist, and she paused in an over-dramatic display of shock.
“My goodness, Thomas, what the devil—”
“I’m not one to murder for sport,” Spot’s throat scratched out. “But I know plenty that do.”
Startlement morphed into delight as she stared at him. “Oh, but I’ve heard you’re quite a powerful man yourself,” she began in a sultry hum. She looked at her wrist with a smile. “Tell me, is this how you pulled the girls to your room?”
Disgusted at the notion, Spot let go of her wrist. They were on her sidewalk. It looked like a classic brownstone, three stories high and a small attic. There were plucks of piano melodies trickling from behind the door, interspersed with dins of voices, voices produced by prostitutes who hadn’t the means to live elsewhere, girls who would’ve starved to death in some lonely venue before Nell Anderson had hired them. Spot knew they didn’t deserve to be homeless, no matter what the street preachers said in the same breath to the fallen women. As he gazed up at the tawny-glowing windows, which shrouded God knows what kind of horrors, he felt a surge of conflict. It shook him to his core. It was like standing out on the ledge of a burning building—the flames behind, the hard pavement below, and only a bit of siding to grasp onto. Mrs. Anderson started toward her doorstep.
“You could’ve heard about the strike organizing and agitation by the river mills from newspapers. I take it you can read,” Spot argued, composing his nauseous stomach. “How do you know there’s a rabblerousing son of a bitch after Burke’s businesses?”
“Rabblerousing bitch, more like,” she replied, shadowed by the dimly amber gleam of the lamps in her front hall. “I’ve seen her. From a distance, of course.”
“Do you know her name?”
“I don’t have the pleasure of knowing it myself.” Her soft voice had taken an acid-toned cadence. “But perhaps you’ll see the river siren herself on some moonless night – I’d imagine she lives beneath the docks and smokes harbor sand like opium. Lord have mercy, and the dear looked thin and poorly. Something that Stefano Maltese ought to drag in and shoot up with morphine. Tell me, does he still collect strays?” She didn’t wait for an answer as she turned the key in the lock and disappeared inside.
Spot peered dumbly at Nell Anderson’s closed door, trying to catch his breath like he’d run the marathon. Then he turned and slid away with a hot-footed stride from the disorderly house.
He didn’t bother hailing down a hansom. He wanted to walk with whatever cryptic information he’d just been given – information he didn’t understand or know what to do with. He filed up Taylor through ice patches and melted snow under dim streetlights.
Spot knew he had to take anything Nell Anderson said with a spoonful of salt, even if she gave half-truths.
But they weren’t even half-truths, Spot reasoned. Removing Kate from the equation, as there was no way she’d get caught up in this, Spot felt strange about Mrs. Anderson’s charges being thrown to the mercy of the street. All because Burke lost money in his workers agitating. All because someone was luring them to. Someone who may have a personal vendetta. Muggs had more of a reason than any to wish Burke harm if that night was any display, but he wasn’t one to work tirelessly to do it in such a way. And most of what came out of his mouth had once been on Julia’s tongue.
Something was being left out of the whole picture. Spot could sense it. And he needed answers. But he didn’t set off for Julia’s even though checking on Kate would be in his best interest. To see that she was safe.
Instead, Spot was for Slaughterhouse Point at 361 Water Street, a reasonable distance away from Taylor, scripting all the curses he’d throw Muggs’ way as soon as he crossed the threshold of his and Alexei’s den.
Chapter 4: Opera Shadows
Summary:
“Muggs, don’t smoke,” Julia hissed without looking at him as if she could sense his movements and interpret their meaning.
“Why not?” Muggs asked with a shrug. “This ain’t the Metropolitan Opera. ‘Sides, I’m sure the managers of that theater smoke whenever they please.”
“Mr. Abbey and Mr. Grau have a certain respect for the opera, thank you, and refuse to smoke on such sacred grounds,” Julia replied as she nearly choked on the smoke emanating from Muggs’ cigarette after he struck the match.
“You would know their names.”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
October 1901
Manhattan, NY
Muggs heard the whisper in his sleep. It always started at four in the morning – when it always began—and woke him up every time. He was not fully awake by then but was far from it. He was exhausted: eyelids heavy, limbs sore and immobile, skin cold or sweaty, breathing long and deep, and a head full of half-faded dreams. It was a woman’s whisper, he thought. She woke him up without fail, pulling him from the void. She defied boundaries and disarmed reason, replacing it with dread. By the time Muggs opened his weary eyes, he was terrified, scared to disobey the whisper – the breathy, unintelligible voice that echoed through his mind like church bells. No one else heard her. Not Alexei. Not Spot Conlon. Not any of the seedy individuals Muggs dealt with regularly.
How much cocaine did you do yesterday?
First acquainted with the whisper when he was fourteen, Muggs had heard this disembodied demon enunciating in his ear. It was a ghostly banshee, keeping him on track, never letting him rest, always dragging him down. When the banshee wasn’t whispering, she was screaming. The screaming was a last resort, as if in an emergency. Muggs got nervous when the screaming took longer – because all he could hear was nothingness, yet a distant ringing punctuated nothingness. A ringing that started soft and slow and grew. It grew until the scream found its way back to the forefront. The scream reminded Muggs to pay attention. It reminded him that he would die if he didn’t.
The whispers and the screams always started at four in the morning. But it’s when the whisper stopped that Muggs felt terrifying emptiness. Merciful Heavens, what drugs did he ingest? Why was his brain so clouded?
Muggs could feel how slow his heart was beating. How slow he was breathing. He tried to take shallow breaths, trying to jumpstart his heart. All he got was stuffy air full of cooked opium from the previous evening’s bender. He needed water to remedy the tight dryness in his throat, but he wouldn’t pull himself off his mattress until he remembered which drugs he had taken.
The back room was still pitch-black, and he could hear Alexei sleeping on the mattress nearby. About an arm’s reach. Always an arm’s reach. It eased their minds to know the other as only an arm’s reach away. Muggs’ eyelids opened finally, and he stared out into the room as his eyes burned, trying to recall last night’s events. It scared him not to remember. While he wracked his mind, he fell into his habitual checklist. First came injury assessment. He absently ran his hands under his shirt and over his chest, then his ribs, then abdomen, then hips – feeling for bruising or blood or broken bones. He braced himself for all of it, trying not to freak out about dried blood, a cracked rib, or a painful bruise. The past couple of nights, he’d been too fidgety and too vacant, too erratic—maybe he was used to getting sedated with a spoonful of chloral hydrate and strapped to his bed in the Refuge. Muggs heard from Doc that sleep was good for memory recall. You have a clearer mind and a sharper sense of the past. But Muggs had nothing in his life that he wanted to remember. He’d always been that way.
He still couldn’t get out of bed. And he couldn’t help but wonder if that meant he was dead.
But he felt his heart beating again. It was getting faster. Long breath. Another deep breath. Stop panicking. Breathe as Alexei does, slow, deep, in, and out…
Muggs was lying there, trying to remember how to breathe. How the hell did Alexei do it? He sat up and felt his fingers start to twitch, as they usually did first thing in the morning, and he felt miserable and beaten. He knew what drugs he had taken last night. He knew what he did. His promise to Julia had been broken. And he was the one who’d broken it. He grabbed the shaky right hand with his left and discovered it was freezing. So, he squeezed the hand, trying to pump the circulation back into it, but his left hand was just as stiff and cold.
You might as well face what happened last night. He’d had one cigarette left, and his cocaine tin had been stashed away somewhere by Alexei at his request. Julia had implored him to try to go without it, to see if he could do it. And he’d done a fine job ignoring that voice for most of the day. Sitting on the stained and moth-eaten sofa in the main room, he smoked his last cigarette and then three of Alexei’s to take away the urging for the powder. He couldn’t take his eyes off the wall in front of him. Thirty minutes went by, and his knee was bouncing, his heart was beating, his head was pounding, and he felt faint.
Before Muggs knew it, he was running around the flat, tearing away furniture and ripping apart loose panels in the wall, trying to find that tin. Muggs eventually discovered it in a hollowed-out compartment under the floorboards. Quick as a flash, he was pacing the front room, cradling the tin containing the drug in the palm of his right hand, his left finger stabbing into the powder. Muggs brought his shaky, white-covered fingertip to his nose and huffed it clean before diving into the tin for more. As the finger traveled back and forth from the tin to his nose, he didn’t have a thought in his head. The repetition of the act soothed the persistent voice into silent hypnosis. He didn’t want this numbness to end. So when the tin was empty of the few remnants it had initially contained, he dropped it onto the table, grabbed Alexei’s opium stash, and began sniffing that sedative powder up his nostrils, too, before his mind could tell him to stop. By the time he woke up from bender, he had inhaled more opium than Alexei had ever smoked in a day.
That morning, he felt like absolute death. That had done too much damage. But it’s not the drug bender that scares Muggs. It’s the absence of willpower. It’s the thought that he has no control over anything anymore. For the first time in a long time, he wants to cry—wicked child. You are a vicious, wicked boy! God forgive you! You evil, cruel boy! You’re a vicious dog. That’s what you are!
Muggs wiped at his reddened eyes. The voice of the cocaine demon was gone, and then he only heard the screams of his mother. And she was screaming. Crying. Throwing anything within her reach. He heard Colleen crying, too, from somewhere nearby. He could still see himself at thirteen, standing frozen in the doorway of his family’s flat, observing the bloodbath before him. It was grotesque and macabre and burned into his brain forever. His mother’s screaming got louder, and she’d switched to Russian—where she could throw colorful curses and damnations—as he dodged airborne plates and teacups. But he wasn’t the one receiving her rage.
It was his older brother Jesse. And he looked worse than the corpse on the floor at the foot of their mother’s bed, with blood all over his shaking hands. He was holding Colleen with those blood-stained hands. And then he reached out for Muggs, too—
“No matter what, you are not to leave my side.” Julia’s voice cut through like a hunting knife. But Muggs welcomed the stab through the chest. “Understood?”
He found himself on a busy sidewalk in Manhattan, his hand held by Julia’s, and feeling dizzy. Despite all the changes for the better in recent weeks—getting a stable job on the railroad and fixing up his and Alexei’s flat at the behest of Elena—Colleen’s absence in his life had left Muggs feeling deeply uncertain about his ability to keep breathing. The idea of Julia becoming a more constant presence in his life was a huge motivation to go on. Julia was secretive about their rendez-vous, but Julia wasn’t impulsive. Muggs bet she had her reasons for keeping their entanglements private from her roommate Katherine Moore. When she invited Muggs to a show in Manhattan after not hearing from her for a week, Muggs jumped at the chance, even though he couldn’t think of anything more exhausting. At her bidding, he promised to dress in his better set of clothes, of which Muggs only had four: his two everyday looks, which he alternated, something a bit cleaner for better occasions, and his sleepwear, worn under his clothes.
But as soon as they stepped foot into the upper west side of Manhattan’s finery, Muggs completely sympathized with any lewd agitators, jackrollers, sneak thieves, chloral hydrate fiends, and general corrupters of the public good the moment he set eyes upon those men and women who have the wealth and audacity to christen themselves “New York’s Four Hundred.” Tailored, dressed, decorated, and cologne-fragranced, the legendary Polite Society in the city, alongside their many family members and social-climbing friends, can push, criticize, slander, and amuse with a recklessness that the run-of-the-mill tourist might find captivating but the poor, unlucky trespasser will think sick and appalling. Muggs was one of those trespassers that Friday night in January. He and Julia had taken a hansom to the theater and wrestled up the thin stairways like two drifters. Nothing made Muggs feel more murderous than being swallowed alive by the upper echelon of New York Society. As they slid and hiked through the foyer, trying to get by dowagers whose dresses and physiques were tailored to only sedentary lives, Julia sporadically bumped into people she’d recognized from girlhood, friends of her parents who now snubbed their noses hurriedly when they made eye contact or just nodded in a petty way that stated clearly, Do spare me the awkwardness of having to engage you in real conversation. That was ace, according to Julia, but some refused to move out of the way for the likes of her so she could move safely past. Once they reached the house’s second floor, Julia’s worries and garments had been cast into disorder while her mind was buzzing with the noise of a couple hundred effortlessly stupid tête-à-têtes. Medicinal cure was at the ready, nonetheless: Julia cut her way through to one of the hidden cocktail stations beneath a wall tableau, threw back a hasty flute of sparkling wine, seized two more in each hand, and then made straight for her family’s box, knowing her parents rarely used it anymore.
Muggs was close behind, rifling through the night’s brochure like he cared, and sat beside her. “Jesus Christ!” He said, collapsing into his chair while holding his drink perfectly steady. “This place is fuckin’ bedlam! They got Charmion disrobing tonight?”
Charmion, as she was known, had started as an acrobat in vaudeville shows until she made an appearance in Edison’s Vitascope doing an erotic dance to the accompaniment of a band. A dance some had started to call a striptease. Naturally, the show was popular with sporting men and swells alike.
“I doubt if it’ll come to that,” Julia answered, turning to Muggs with an amused—and mischievous—smirk. “But I’d bet my boots most of the men here would’ve preferred it.” She clipped the brochure from Muggs’ hand and set it aside, looking much cheerier and better than the last time he’d seen her. She stared into her glass. “This will ready us for a night with vultures.”
“They all decided to come out of the woodwork simultaneously. Like ants,” Muggs said, looking around the horseshoe-like theater. He began to lean forward to peer down, but Julia placed a hand on his arm.
"Well, ants are good at teamwork."
"And team-dying."
“Let’s be a bit discrete tonight, Muggs. If that’s okay.” At his curious expression, she added, “I don’t have the stomach to be recognized by eighty people.”
Muggs nodded and planted himself beside her, then proceeded to investigate the audience, glancing over at a nearby box. “Hey, is that Rutherfurd Stuyvesant?” Julia followed his gaze with little interest. “That’s his wife? Looks young and pretty to be his.”
“Because she’s not his wife,” Julia replied, looking away. “She’s some little heiress. How much you want a bet he gave her that emerald necklace she’s wearing?”
Muggs stared over at the ocean of strange faces below them. “How many people does this place hold? Even the pit’s overloaded.”
“We might not even see the performance,” Julia said, with a giggle that confused Muggs—it was unusual for her to be this cool about interrupted plans. “Look, the Livingston’s booth is fit to sink. It’s so full. And that Mills boy looks like he might’ve smoked something that’ll knock him out before the show starts!” She reached into a little glass box beside her chair and handed Muggs a pair of folding glasses. “Here, try these.”
Inspecting them as if they were made of gold, Muggs raised them to his eyes and examined the opposite end of the gallery. “There’s a mob of rich molls in that box,” he said. “But they look as bored as me. Maybe they’re high-class whores.”
“These are my people. The pride of the city, the morality protectors, the keepers of the status quo,” Julia said, extending her left arm toward the horseshoe of the house as if presenting an introduction. “On display for everyone to marvel at, and aren’t they something!”
Muggs gave Julia a surprised look. “You’re already tipsy? You’ve been actin’ strange.”
“I’m as temperate as a church mouse,” Julia answered. “Although I doubt the church mice here tonight are temperate. Don’t look at me like that. I haven’t completely lost my mind. Oh, there’s Mrs. Helen Gould.” Julia nodded her head in greeting but then faltered with a grimace.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Muggs asked.
“Sometimes my neck gives me trouble,” she answered. “I’ve slept on it poorly…” Julia trailed off as she eyed him, and then she brightened deliberately. “Again. So, amuse me, Muggs—what’s happening in your neighborhood this evening.”
Muggs still had that obvious worry, but when she changed the subject, he shook his head and brushed it off. “Lex and Elena are at the Mandarin Café,” he said, referring to the opium den that was not a café. “To start the night, I think.”
“The Mandarin Café?” Julia echoed keenly. “I thought you said they put knock-out drops in their opium?”
Muggs nodded. “They do.”
Julia’s eyes, rapid and sparkling now, became vivid with concern. “Right,” she muttered. “But Alexei isn’t worried anything will happen to Elena if he falls asleep?”
“I’ve seen him fight on opium. He almost stabbed a guy’s eye out when the fellow tried to rob him.”
Nodding her head slowly, she replied, “Sounds gruesome. Does he know where you are tonight?”
“I told him I was going to see a play,” Muggs answered a little warily. “But he didn’t ask who I was going with.”
“For the best.” Julia leaned back in her chair, seeming satisfied. “I don’t care so much that he knows about us. It’s Katherine who would be…funny about it.”
“Funny how?” Muggs asked, feeling that old surge of uncomfortable uncertainty as he’d just stepped into a private party during an argument.
“What?” Julia sighed as if she hadn’t heard his question. “Oh. Never mind.” She gestured quickly to the band. “Marvelous. There’s Accardo.”
Over to the dais stepped the graciously silhouetted, white-haired Domenico Accardo, formerly Giuseppe Verdi’s protégé and now the best symphonic conductor in the city. His aquiline nose was adorned by spectacles that kept balance throughout the dynamic forces that categorized his direction, and Accardo ordered immediate reverence. As he focused his firm stare on the spectators, most of the gossiping rich sorts became quiet and meek momentarily. Then the lights faded to black, and Accardo cut into the commanding prelude of The Barber of Seville. The racket in the seats started up once more. Everyone continued to chatter over the music to an obnoxious degree, but Julia went on watching with an expression of complete tranquility.
Indeed, for one whole act, Julia bore the rude spectators’ obliviousness of the melodic wonder that was transpiring live with perplexing composure. The lead star Clavell’s vocals and performance were as dazzling as always, and his fellow actors—especially Emilio di Rossi—were excellent. The audience only gave up an occasional ovation, followed by more chatter and moving about. Madeleine Dupont was a pleasure, although her acting flairs did not prevent a gaggle of drunk Harvard men from roaring as if she were a typical burlesque hall dancer from the Tenderloin. At the first intermission, the audience comported themselves as they had at the beginning, like a parade of impressive wild animals. By the time the second act started, Muggs was nauseous and puzzled about why Julia had invited him.
“You’re not even paying attention.”
Julia’s whisper startled Muggs from his daze. There was a vocalist on stage, a slower-paced break from the procession of gymnasts. He looked around her estranged family’s private box and wondered why the concierge had even allowed them to sit there with her. Perhaps he hadn’t heard of her emancipation.
In the next box over sat a pristine-looking young couple. Muggs spotted them immediately, though Julia was far more entranced by the acts on stage to survey the crowd as quickly. The young woman seemed like the shining ornament of refined society, but there was something stiff about her, too. A crack in the façade. Firm, emotionless, and flawless looking on the surface. But Muggs could see right through that, transparent as glass. There was a sporting man beside her. He was all waxed mustache and stylishly custom-made sleeves, perfect as a postcard and just as disposable.
“You’re right, I ain’t,” Muggs answered Julia in a bored mumble. He slumped further in his seat with a sigh, stretching out his long legs in front of him. He dug in his pocket and fished out a half-dead cigarette, fumbling for a match to strike. “How much longer?”
“Muggs, don’t smoke,” Julia hissed without looking at him as if she could sense his movements and interpret their meaning.
“Why not?” Muggs asked with a shrug. “This ain’t the Metropolitan Opera. ‘Sides, I’m sure the managers of that theater smoke whenever they please.”
“Mr. Abbey and Mr. Grau have a certain respect for the opera, thank you, and refuse to smoke on such sacred grounds,” Julia replied as she nearly choked on the smoke emanating from Muggs’ cigarette after he struck the match.
“You would know their names.”
“They’re friends of my father’s,” Julia replied in a quieter whisper. “Henry and Maurice used to come to our house after opening nights for cocktails. They invited us to Don Giovanni's debut when I was a girl. After their company failed and went into debt, my father helped organize a group of private backers to put the company back on its feet. They were meant to raise something of five hundred dollars. The first charitable event was an expensive performance of La Traviata. I was invited backstage to meet the performers, and I’ll never forget it.”
“Sounds riveting, Jules,” Muggs mumbled through a puff of smoke. “Not sure what happened to you since. For you to sit here and talk so fondly about the opera as if you miss that life—”
“I’m not speaking fondly, Muggs.” The blue eyes went cold, and a calm but fierce grit toughened her tone: “How about this—stick it out for the rest of the show, and I’ll do something you want to do after. And we’ll be even.”
“Something I wanna do?” Muggs asked, astonished. “Like what?”
“Not something illegal, mind you,” Julia answered. Muggs was about to object, but she gave him a stern, side-eyed glance. “That’s my only condition, so don’t push it. But I need your word—is it a deal?”
So, naturally, Muggs agreed—what else could he say? He stared at her like she was some bird a cat had dropped at his feet. He pulled her toward him into the dark recesses of the empty box, where the shadows were cavernous and sanctified. They were hidden by the balcony along the front and surrounded by three walls, but opera glasses had a way of seeing what was meant to be discrete.
“You’re mine, right?” he asked softly, out of nowhere. “You ain’t going with no other guys?”
All Julia gave him in response was just a shrug of her shoulders, and he took her cheek in his hand and pulled her mouth to his like her lips were a spirit he would drink. He kissed her then, and her breath got stuck in her lungs, so he drank that, too, and deprived her of oxygen.
“Jules, you’ll be my death, I swear,” he mumbled. “But I’m sure that suits you fine.”
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her again so her legs went limp and turned to molasses, and his calloused fingers were a rough, comforting buffer against her soft skin. She was butter in his hands as he pulled her onto his lap. They stayed breathless after, strung together like electric lights. Far away, Julia could hear the vocalists singing a foreboding tune and the din of nearby conversations. Only the quiet of hers and Muggs’ breathing was loud and clear, the beat of his pulse wild as her own, soaring in the chambers of their hearts.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. The warmth off his hair smelled like cigarettes and sweat. His hand lingered on the shallow groove of her collarbone. They were so quiet for a moment that Julia felt goosebumps prick her skin, though she wasn’t cold. “You’re mine,” he said, kissing her again. He was particular and artful in the way he went about it, so it was evident he’d done that to many girls before, and even as Julia was afraid of him and his dangerous dealings—not that she’d ever admit that aloud—the feeling of his tongue at her lips started a shock of melted electricity straight down her middle as if she could feel the end of the world approaching. “Open your mouth more,” he said, and she did, overwrought with kisses, and she lost track of the show until his fingers finally found the hem of her dress, and his hand began to travel beneath her skirts. Meanwhile, his other hand began fumbling with the buttons of his trousers.
“Stop,” she said and swatted him.
“Julia…”
“Stop.”
“No one will see.”
“No.”
“It’s so dark in here.”
“Not in the theater.”
“Come on. You promised we could do what I wanted.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Please, Jules, dear God.”
“I said no.”
“I’m aching.”
“I’m annoyed.”
“It’s so painful.”
“Not my problem.”
But Muggs persisted. He held his heart as if she had stabbed him. Julia’s face was a deep crimson from all the pleadings he was whispering in her ear, all his twistedly filthy, persuasive words. She was beginning to shrink from him a bit. This wasn’t how he usually spoke to her. Now, she could hear how he’d been able to manipulate his way into getting what he wanted from others. The underlying threat was the darkness in his green eyes, which now looked like dark tar pits, the poison on his tongue. When that didn’t work, he pulled away from her. His face in the shadows looked like the face of the lost boy who’d been cocaine-starved and catted on Randall’s Island.
“You don’t give a damn about me, do you?” He muttered.
“I do.”
“Nobody ever did. Not even my mother.”
“That’s not true.”
“No one ever wanted me.”
“Well, no one ever wanted me, either.”
“I want you,” he said. “Just let me—”
“Muggs…”
Muggs smirked suddenly, switching tactics as soon as he realized playing the pathetic orphan hadn’t worked either. It was chilling to watch in action. “You’re just scared, ain’t ya,” he teased. “God, you’re so pretty.”
It was the strategy and fawning that Julia was used to.
“You’re wild blonde hair,” he said, tangling his fingers.
“You’re out of your wild, dark mind, Matthew Tracey.”
“You’re the prettiest I’ve ever had, you know that?”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“From the moment I first saw you,” he continued. “You’re the Belle of Brooklyn.”
“Shut up.”
Julia let out a sigh. It was all sugar and honey-lipped nothings.
“Just a quick ride,” he said with a wink as if he were offering her eternal life in exchange for her soul. “Christ, have mercy, Jules, come on. I’m dying for it. I ain’t been fuckin’ any other girls but you.”
Julia couldn’t help but feel stirred and bothered by his wicked talk—a quick ride. And so passed the next few minutes as she pushed him away and another few minutes and another assault on her skirts. Finally, trembling in a way she couldn’t understand, Julia said quietly, “Just a quick ride,” and allowed him.
It was a desperate hurry. He was everything she wasn’t supposed to like. Manipulative. Rough. Vulgar. But something about this interaction felt so…familiar. So normal. It made her sick.
How he cursed and moaned against her. It almost made her feel better. Better than silence. Like she was in control, but there was always that initial moment when he had all the power in the world. That moment when she was terrified he’d split her in two. She was terrified at how such a small opening could stretch for something painful. The only education of that sort was given by her mother when she’d told Julia at an early age to keep her legs crossed, promising to give her a more in-depth explanation on the night before her wedding.
Much good that promise did her.
“Oh God,” Muggs rasped in a divine voice as she held back tears. Then she heard how forced he sounded, feigning pleasure as he’d learned long ago, clutching her hips to keep the girl balanced on his lap. She should be furious, she knew, but she didn’t feel angry. Enraged at his beckoning to engage in unholy acts in a theater and then have the audacity to fake his feelings. What in God’s name was wrong with him? What was wrong with her?
Instead of being angry, she felt helpless for the first time in a long time. Muggs used sex as an escape when he wasn’t huffing cocaine. Which meant things were desperate. I never really liked fuckin’ ‘til you, Muggs had once told Julia. She hadn’t known whether to be flattered or amazed by that. For her part, Julia had never put much thought into lovemaking, the very idea filling her stomach with a pool of vomit. But things were different when she was with Muggs and he was with her. Neither of them could quite explain why. But part of why it worked was not knowing the answer. The catalyst was a mystery.
“You gotta get off me,” he whispered, his breath sharp and hoarse, still managing to sound so charming and coaxing that it baffled Julia as to how a boy like Muggs became a boy like Muggs. Lots of practice, she reasoned. Sniffling furtively, she nodded and got up from his lap, feeling the former newsie run his fingers along the skin of her leg.
He looked expectantly at her as she sat back in her seat, fixing her skirts. “Julia…”
“You said a quick ride,” she said curtly, focusing back on the stage.
For a moment, Muggs looked horrified, agonized even, his tall frame slumping into his seat childishly. “How the fuck am I supposed to—”
“Deal with it in the washroom,” she hissed with a cold shrug. “Use your right hand. Might feel like someone else’s.”
“Are you serious?”
He was met with her silence and the continued high-pitched duet of the performers onstage.
With a scoff of disbelief, Muggs did his trousers up, yanking his braces over his shoulders and standing. “Fuckin’ hell, Jules…” she heard him muttering as he slammed his hands against the door, pushing it open to the dark corridor and disappearing.
She sniffled again, blinking rapidly as she smoothed her dress. As she scanned the elegantly dressed audience, she wondered if running away had been worth it. To live like a renegade with Katherine Moore in her family’s storeroom. To take her life into her own hands, getting by as a woman alone in the city. To end up getting fucked by a cocaine-addicted, ex-convict gangster in the darkened confines of her parents’ prestigious opera box. But it was essential to look at the alternative. Indeed, her odds of being groped against her will in that same prestigious opera box if she were an upstanding member of high society weren’t zero. They were the same minus the cocaine-addicted, ex-convict gangster bit. Replace him with a fine-waistcoated, oil-mustached, older clerk of her father’s.
“You know,” came a sweet voice behind Julia, making her spine stiffen near rigor-mortis. “That was a better show than Verdi or Mozart could produce. And here I thought those rumors were vile lies and petty gossip.”
Julia turned in her chair to find Lucile Moffett, a childhood friend of her family’s and from a very wealthy line herself, in the box doorway, eyes scorching hot with insinuation. “My, Miss Julia Hawthorne, I thought that was you,” she said pleasantly at the sight of Julia’s face. “You are, of course, still permitted in your parents’ box, I see. Would you mind if I joined your little party? I find no earthly reason you should be left unchaperoned for one more minute with that…man.”
“Lucile.” Julia nearly choked on the name, sitting up straighter and frantically brushing away wild hair strands from her face. “I didn’t know…I mean, I didn’t see you, I was—”
“You were what?” Lucile didn’t flex a muscle when she sat down in the velvet chair on the other side of Julia, purposefully avoiding where Muggs had sat. “Fraternizing on your father’s chair? That’s where he sits, isn’t it?” She asked, nodding to the vacant seat. Lucile didn’t even spare a blink at Julia’s paling face. “Oh, Julia, dear, don’t worry,” she said, her stern expression breaking into a teasing smile. “I’m not here to spy on you. I won’t tell.”
At Julia’s continued silence and draining complexion, Lucile went on. “I’d been told to stay away from you, Julia. They say you’ve grown to be loose. And now I see they’re right. You’ve completely forgotten how to comport yourself like the model young woman you were meant to be.”
She held a champagne flute in her hand and wore a green silk gown of watered satin that made her dark eyes sparkle like a midnight orb. Elegant and sophisticated as always.
“Tell me, my little prodigal daughter,” she said tenderly, leaning back as light fizzled off her champagne glass like crushed diamonds, “Where did you find him?”
There was a touch of genuine intrigue to her snide tone, and Julia felt as though an entire herd of cats had ripped her tongue from her mouth.
“Who?” was all she could muster, still reeling from the nightmare of seeing an old remnant of the life she’d left behind—the life she’d abandoned for a reason.
Curiosity on most people looked like interest. On Lucile Moffett, it looked like jealousy. That threw Julia back. Lucile’s lips parted slightly, and her face hardened as her groomed eyebrows danced.
“Why, Mr. Tracey, of course,” she gasped as if it were obvious.
“But…” Julia sputtered for words, feeling her head beginning to ache again. Something was haunting about looking into the dead eyes of a past relic. A face she expected never to see again. “How do you know Muggs—” She shook her head, correcting herself. “Matthew Tracey?”
“Oh, Julia, you’re such a goose,” Lucile giggled. It made Julia’s blood freeze. “Thaddeus Livingston and Arthur Otis took a group of us Vassar girls slumming with them one night in Brooklyn. It was frightful fun. We stopped at a few gambling dens, and the boys bet on dogs. Then we ended up at the ghastly, awful little bordello you could imagine. Bitsy Scaling went upstairs with one of the prostitutes,” she said with another raising of eyebrows. “But you know what we’ve always said about Bitsy Scaling.”
Julia had no amused reaction. No reaction at all. Inside, she was a mess of molten magma and ice-cold dread. “Yes,” she echoed quietly, feeling her voice catch in her throat as she scanned the boxes beside hers. Unwelcome, judging eyes were now peering at them from the shadows.
“Anyway, I went along specifically to meet Matthew Tracey. And I found him the most entertaining, charming man. But then again, you used to say I was an empty-headed little fool.”
Julia’s throat now felt scratchy as she moved to speak. “I did?” She rubbed her temples, struggling to maintain an air of composure. “I-I mean, you met him, Muggs—Matthew, slumming in Brooklyn. That’s…um, that’s…when?”
“Oh, must’ve been a few months ago now,” she said with another wink. “A little after Lewis proposed to me. But you didn’t hear about that, I take it. Lewis Randolph is…well, he’s gentle enough. But my dear, I’ll never want for a thing as long as I live. He’s got oodles of money. My mother is pleased with the arrangement, and I like seeing her happy. But neither of them knows…” She covered her hand with a dainty white glove, looking around as if she were about to divulge that she was the one who’d assassinated Lincoln. “Do swear yourself to secrecy, Julia.”
“I…” Julia couldn’t fathom why this interaction was lasting so long. Indeed, Lucile was risking tremendous good standing by talking to her. “Okay.”
“Who am I kidding? I know you won’t tell. You’ve always been rosy at keeping secrets. It’s just…I hope you don’t mind since you’re here with Matthew Tracey, but…” Lucile sighed, giving her old friend a bashful, girlish grin—one that Julia remembered wanting to slap off her perky face since the day Lucile announced she was best suited to perform Chopin on the piano at the benefit concert instead of Julia. “He’s the first I did it with,” she finished under her breath.
Julia didn’t say anything for a moment. She let the information sink into her skin like water, absorbing and compartmentalizing, unsure of what reaction she should paint across her already blank face. The possibilities were endless. Finally, she went with something of combined shock and muted anger. “I see.”
Lucile giggled her incessantly piercing and frivolous hyena giggle again. “I suppose you know what I’m talking about.” A faraway, dreamlike smile spread across her face, glowing her entire being as if a spotlight had been cast in her direction. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you. But I know you won’t tell anyone, won’t you, my Julia? Even though you’ve run away, it’s not like we stopped caring for each other.” She frowned, tilting her delicate face inquisitively. “Say. Why did you run away in the first place? Mother says you wanted to go to Brooklyn to become a dancer.”
Julia shook her head, biting her lip.
You’ll never tell. You’ve always been a good girl, haven’t you?
“Lucile?” An unfamiliar voice called from somewhere in the corridor. “Lucile, darling, where have you gone? It’s about time for the second intermission.”
“Oh, that’s Lew,” Lucile hopped up as if she’d sat on a tack. Julia figured if she were wearing a hoopskirt, she would’ve shot to the ceiling like a rocket from the buoyancy effect alone. “Do you come here often, or is this a rare occasion? I really would like to catch up, Julia. It’s a shame to be at a distance all the time. It hasn’t been the same since you left.” With another awkward, perfumed pause, Lucile gave Julia a regretful but sweet smile and disappeared through the door again.
Exhaling deeply, Julia let out a slight whine in overwhelmed panic, burying her face in her hands. She suddenly remembered why venturing into Manhattan was such a godforsaken suicide mission. Of course, she’d be recognized. It didn’t matter how tanned her skin, how outdated her clothes had become, how wild she’d acted. People didn’t just forget. She did not doubt in her mind Lucile Moffatt would talk. She would report her sighting and lascivious activity to her mother, who would then take it up the ladder of gossip until it reached Julia’s mother.
And then she couldn’t help but wonder what Lucile meant by rumors. What did her former friends and family think of her? That she was no more than a drifter, an impoverished single mother, a low prostitute? Only bringing more shame upon her family.
“Ya know, I thought I hated this place, but then I found the alcohol cart again,” Muggs’ crackling voice came from behind Julia as he returned inside the box. “Vodka?” He handed her a glass. “Well, mostly. They mix it with cider. But I figured if we poured champagne in there, too, it could get us through the rest of this play—”
“I want to leave.” Julia’s voice was faded and timid, clutching the arms of the chair tightly as she looked at him. “Please. Muggs. I want to leave.”
“Whoa, you don’t gotta leave on my behalf. I’ll watch the rest with you. A deal’s a deal—”
“Matthew.” Julia was standing, rejecting the alcohol Muggs offered her. Tears glistened in her blue eyes, which Muggs could detect in the dim light. He faltered, uncomfortable with women crying in his presence, and took a hesitant sip from his glass. “I don’t care where we go. I want out.”
With a hard swallow, Muggs ran an inked hand through his hair, mussing it in place of a nervous tick. “Sure.”
“Will you hold my hand?”
How she asked him was so quiet and desperate that Muggs felt his palms begin to sweat. Julia wasn’t one to ask for little things like that. She just did them without apology.
Without a word, chewing the remaining vile vodka-cider-champagne concoction down, Muggs offered Julia his rough, large hand and clasped hers tightly. And that’s when Julia tore out of the private box like a bat out of hell, not bothering to look behind her to see if Muggs was keeping her pace, feeling his hand in hers as a sign he hadn’t left.
She nearly bumped into an usher carrying a caviar tray up a flight of stairs. Muggs didn’t seem fazed in the slightest by her haste, but he did appear mildly bemused, allowing himself to be dragged into the main lobby that was starting to teem with guests during the start of the second intermission.
“Miss Hawthorne!” A woman exclaimed as Julia collided into her bejeweled gown with a domino effect cascade, sending another young woman into an assortment of exotic potted plants. “What is the meaning of this uncivilized expedition!”
Julia’s face flushed as she met the piercing gaze of Mrs. Fensby, one of her mother’s closest companions. “I…I’m sorry—”
Mr. Fensby took hold of his wife to steady her, casting a suspicious eye from Julia to Muggs.
Mrs. Fensby’s appalled and scandalized eyes traveled from Julia to her hand clasped in another man’s and then up at Muggs. “Heavens!” She shrieked as she clutched her husband’s arm, beholding the tall, dark-haired, and gaunt night terror before her. “Don’t tell me this is who you’ve married behind your parents’ backs! How far you’ve fallen, my girl!”
Julia’s world began blurring around her, feeling none reassured when Muggs leaned over teasingly, not realizing the gravity of the situation and adding to Mrs. Fensby’s further horror, “Nothin’ so serious, lady. We’re just sleepin’ together.” He gave a wicked smirk and wrapped his arms protectively around Julia. “Ain’t that right, милый?”
“I say,” Mr. Fensby said to his wife, not at all astonished, slightly amused. He raised his monocle to his eye, peering up at Muggs as if studying a mythical creature. “It’s Slavic. Or perhaps a Hebrew.”
At that, it appeared Mrs. Fensby might self-righteously faint into the young woman who had finally been lifted back to her feet amidst the décor plants. Julia groaned and pulled Muggs away once again, this time beelining for the exit, not caring who she elbowed past this time.
“This was a mistake,” she kept repeating under her breath. “I’m so stupid. So, so stupid. I could enjoy something like this again. So, so stupid.”
“Hey, Julia,” Muggs called once they were outside, and he was continually being escorted forcefully toward the sidewalk, “Wanna pull my other arm out of the socket while you’re at it? Don’t want them to be uneven.”
“Oh, shut up, Matthew!” She shouted, spinning around to face him and dropping his hand as if he’d burned her. “Just shut up!” Tears had begun to spill from her eyes now. “I did what you asked, and you did what I asked. We’re even.”
“What?” He barked out a laugh after the initial pause from her sudden outburst. “You dragged me out of you’re the end of the bargain. I was starting to like the play, honestly. With all the fighting and singing and shit like that…What was it? Sleeping Beauty?”
“The Barber of Seville!” Julia shouted as if that were the pertinent thing at the moment. “For fuck’s sake, Muggs, you didn’t even know what opera you were watching!” She angrily wiped at her eyes and searched her pockets, desperate for her handkerchief. “Damn you! You never want to do things I want to do! It’s always about you! Always, ‘Please, Julia. Just real quick, Julia. Be a good girl. Don’t say a word.’”
Muggs’ face wrinkled in confusion as she went on, stepping forward to place his hands on her shoulders. “Jules, I never said—”
“Get off!” She shouted, shoving his hands from her shoulders and jumping back. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you dare touch me!”
Muggs cursed under his breath. A natural, unsettled look took over his face as he stared at Julia, whose shoulders began to tremble. Then, her whole body started to shake. Then, the tears fell more freely.
“Just leave me,” Julia said, struggling to take a deep breath. “I’ll get home okay. Don’t worry."
“Julia, something’s wrong—”
“I don’t want to talk about it!”
“Shit, Miss Hawthorne,” Muggs forced another uncomfortable, incredulous laugh. “I ain’t leavin’ you on the streets of upper Manhattan in the dark by yourself. I don’t care how many rich bitches you know. I’m takin’ you home, or I’m stayin’ with you here. Take your pick.”
With a pout of frustration, tears still stinging her eyes and head swimming from panic and humiliation, Julia finally threw up her hands in surrender and started in a random direction down the street. “Oh, damn you to hell, Tracey!”
Muggs caught up with her in just a few straightforward strides. His hands were shoved in his pockets. “Julia, I can do this all night. Though I’d prefer we argued somewhere we could lie down comfortably afterward.”
“Where? Like a fucking stable?”
“Well, that’ll be a start.” He retook her hand, and she didn’t pull it away this time. She held on firmly, in a vice-grip, but Muggs allowed it. “While we’re schlepping toward Bethlehem, would you mind telling me what made you go all Mr. Hyde?”
Julia let another stubborn tear burn her eye before sniffling the rest to oblivion and pursing her lips. “You would never understand.”
“You’re right. I’ve never been a poor little rich girl,” Muggs hummed, not maliciously, though his tone sent a jab into Julia’s stomach. She slowed her march, much to Muggs’ gratitude, and paused altogether near a glowing storefront selling baby prams and dolls. “Oh, I don’t like that look,” he said softly, taking a step back though never once dropping her hand. “That’s your reasons why I hate you look.”
“I don’t hate you,” Julia corrected him, her voice breathy and hoarse. She shook her head and looked more haunted than Muggs had ever genuinely seen in another person. At least, not in a long time. And not on someone as seemingly put-together as Julia Hawthorne. “I need to…” She wiped her eyes again, hating herself for spilling more wild tears. How was that even possible? How was the well not dry? “Damn you for making me cry.”
Without a word of mock or tease, Muggs reached out and used his sleeve to wipe her eyes and cheeks. He gently dabbed at the tears, smoothing her hair and carefully tracing her face. “Damn me for a lot of things,” he murmured, looking down at her in a way she’d never known him to look at anyone. So focused, so still, and so…well, empathetic wasn’t the right word. Not yet, Julia reckoned. But it was something in that field. “But I’d sooner swallow arsenic than make you cry, Jules.” His voice was low and steady, like talking to a wounded child. “Now, what’s got you so scared? Ain’t nothing in the world that terrible. Not for the likes of you.”
Julia bit her lip, staring up at Muggs and realizing in a dreadful moment of a champagne-induced headache that she couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t allow herself to relive the shame, the humiliation of it all. Not in front of him. Never in front of him. “I, um…” she began, mustering up all her courage, squaring her shoulders and willing her lip to stop quivering lest she bite it harder. “I’d like it if you bought me a drink somewhere. I’m not feeling myself, but a hot whiskey should do the trick.” She tried to smile at Muggs’ unwaveringly brilliant green eyes, looking sharp and suspicious. “And all will be forgiven.”
Chapter 5: Self-Destructive
Summary:
“I ain’t as good with words as you or your Katherine Moore,” Muggs told her. “And you’ve lived in the slums long enough to have experienced bad things. It's probably worse than I’ve ever known. But you’re among the toughest, dead rabbit gals I know.”
“I’m fine.”
Notes:
Please note: This chapter may include themes and language that could be considered sensitive or offensive to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
October 1901
Manhattan, NY
Julia had excused herself for the privy the moment they reached the late-night coffeehouse on Baxter Street, leaving Muggs to sit with the explosion that had, just moments ago, left him reeling with nothing but shrapnel. When she returned, Muggs was met with the apple-cheeked beauty, now looking to be in a considerably better condition. Her light sunflower-blonde hair was rearranged into its neat updo, her complete lips had been remedied of stray lipstick, and her pair of sapphire eyes radiated serenity rather than horror.
“You ain’t in danger, are you?” Was the first thing Muggs asked, blowing the steam off his ashen-looking coffee. “Want me to take you home? Back to Katherine Moore?”
Her charmingly rosy cheeks drained of color, followed by a look of grey fear she masked so quickly, Muggs wasn’t sure she’d ever worn in it in the first place. “Good God, no. What’s Katherine going to do, then? She isn’t keen to see me like this.”
Surprised, Muggs positioned his sprawled legs as he shifted in the club chair. “Think she’d wanna know if you’re in trouble.”
“Oh, she’d scheme a way to make it worse, that poor stray puss, I know it.” Julia's voice wavered, trying her hardest not to conjure up the image of her oldest friend seeing her so emotionally wrecked and battered.
The conversation appeared to have taken an abrupt change of course. So, Muggs assumed a look of sympathy. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop as his itch for cocaine intensified to useless panic. Angry with himself for leaving his tin behind, he forced his fingers to stay still.
“For all your shielding her from me, you sure talk about her both a lot and not at all. Confusing.”
“I don’t talk about Katherine to the men I’m seeing. Lest they come between us.”
“Julia, I’d rather get sent back to the Island than come between two best friends. I promise.”
Julia pursed her healthy lips, deliberating. She looked stunning in her brown blouse jacket with a velvet collar. The back fit snugly, and the front was double-breasted, puffing it as if alluding to a total bust. Above the closing, small lapels were arranged, and notches were formed at the ends of the rolling collar. Bishop sleeves and a strap belt finished the lower edge of the jacket. Her typical Brooklyn Heights girl skirt was of the new nine-gored variety, with an inverted box-plait at the back. Her intricate little rambler was perched at the flat of her head, staying in place as if by sheer force of will, adorned with felt and mauve ribbon and fabric violas. If Muggs was meeting her for the first time, he might’ve assumed by looks alone she was the tender-hearted that verged on naïve. The coating of bitter frost that kept New Yorkers guarded from evil was absent on her face. Experience told him she had the brains to compensate for that deficit, even if her beauty reflected a cherry blossom in April.
So, making her a promise—and Lord knows Muggs was suitable—was the best approach. It seemed Julia didn’t want to discuss why she left the theater. Nor why her wealthy, estranged lineage disowned her. Nor why she chose to go in the first place. It seemed, now, Julia wanted to discuss Katherine Moore – a subject that had always intrigued and privately befuddled Muggs. Something was on Julia’s mind, something important to do with the young woman whom she watched over like a hawk. But for reasons unknown, Julia had left Muggs in the dark.
“Ignore me, Muggs,” she fussed, resurrecting and wringing a handkerchief. “This has nothing to do with Katherine. She keeps me on my toes enough without my being sentimental about the past. We haven’t spoken, neither my family nor I. Not for years. Not since I ran away.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Moore looks after you more than you do her. Spot told me as much.”
“Well, that’s not entirely true. Spot doesn’t know as much as he thinks. I don’t like conflict, Muggs, but I’ll admit, there are times when I could…” She shrugged her shoulders irritably. “Give that girl a good shake.”
Muggs frowned. “You can tell me anything. I swear I’ll keep it quiet, Julia.”
A comfortable silence filled the gaps while she seemed to rehearse a script in her head, deciding whether to give Muggs the whole truth or lie through her pretty, plump lips. Just as had happened a thousand times, Muggs was met with a girl whose eyes had gone vast and cold with fear.
Julia agreed with herself and took a deep breath. “It was just…oh, when was it?” She did a few calculations with her sea-blue eyes. “About ten years ago since I spoiled everything for my family and went to live with Katherine.”
“How long have you two been friends?”
“I grew up with her, silly. Her mother and my mother attended school together. Effie was closer to my aunt’s age, but they were all friends. Effie was the daughter of an Italian consul, and my grandfather held the chair for ecclesiastical studies at Vassar. Both men wanted the best for their daughters. Oh, Vassar was where I was meant to go, all right. And Effie’s daughter, too, eventually, but…life didn’t fall according to plan. My mother enrolled me at Oak Hill Academy, and years later, Katherine was sent off with the nuns—more of a girls’ seminary than a real finishing school. But I always invited her to attend my school functions when we were small. And foolish as geese we were in those early days—tea parties and music recitals, performed two-hand Beethoven renditions until midnight. We became sisters, separated only by blood. Though she’s far more…” Julia cringed at a sudden strange taste in her mouth and back paddled her sentence. “Willful. Not by her own doing. She’s had to raise herself. But we shared ideals. I’ve always said a girl has the right to the same education and career as a boy and even…to have a say in the laws our government makes. She was electing politicians. If one is well-educated on such matters, that is. Voting blind is as useless as no vote.”
She paused. She glanced at Muggs to see if he was upset at the idea of women being palavering over politics. George Francis Train had funded and written articles for the women’s rights newspaper The Revolution, which Julia had begun buying copies of and stowed away in her apartment. She’d noticed Muggs, on occasion, rifling through them with a look of both awe and disturbance. So, perhaps if someone as esteemed and masculine as Mr. Train could be an ally to suffrage, Muggs could, too—despite most of the city’s population now deeming Mr. Train a mad, attention-seeking entrepreneur. With that, Muggs rested back in the chair and propped his boots on the third, vacant seat across from him, curving his lips into a slight, amused smirk as he waited for her to go on.
Julia exhaled a tiny breath from her mouth. “My Katherine is…oh, I’m not like her. Confrontational, I mean. I learned that for true when I lived with her. Her methods are unconventional: scandalizing honest God-fearing folk to get her message across, why it’s just…humiliating. Or, impolite, more. I know she can’t help who she is, but does she not slow down and think for once? She tends to turn people against her cause rather than toward it. Things were different after I went to live in Brooklyn and Katherine got thrown out of finishing school. She’d been borrowing books full of radical philosophies, and those principles she’d read…became part of her. Flouncing around like a feral pixie in her half-mended pinafores and spurring on her mother was hard enough to watch, but then she began dressing as bohemian as gypsies and swearing like a sailor. I was worried she’d give herself and what we believed in a bad name, as people aren’t inclined to take a woman’s demands seriously on such unbecoming habits alone.”
“You lived with her, you said. Did you ever work together?”
“I never told you about the strike she organized?” Julia’s spine straightened, her chest panting as her face turned an endearing shade of pink. “The first of many, I suspect, if she has any say in it.”
That surprised Muggs considerably. Manufactory work had long been rising in Brooklyn following the industrial boom across the bridge, as did workers' organizing. The garment workingwomen in Philadelphia had gone on strike in 1888. Then later, in 1890, after the first one failed, all of Pennsylvania slandered them with unpleasant monikers, scornful bitches as the most common. It ended with the strikers slogging back to the job after fears of jeopardizing future work and much more inappropriate threats. The headlines splashed doomsday cautions of what a brave “women’s rights movement” would bring, how equality would turn sane women mad. “Female hysteria,” other papers called it. Muggs had never heard that phrase in everyday use, but after meeting Julia, he was sure which side of the argument should be secured in a straitjacket and deemed unsound.
“Let’s hear it then,” Muggs said, inviting her to go on.
“There was a brief time when we’d taken a garment factory job together. Two weeks on the line, Katherine drafted a laborer’s doctrine, and God helped me. Perhaps that enchanted her to Spot in the first place, his involvement with the newsboy strike…She slid it under the factory door like she delivered top-secret war plans. Many of the girls followed in her train, including me, and honestly, I’m embarrassed to think of it. But then again, she always had a way with words. Could convince an angel Hell was but a sauna.”
“Yeah, she’s got quite the mouth.”
Julia looked lost in a daydream rather than sitting in a smokey coffeehouse. “There we were, that winter solstice in 1898, parading up and down with banners. Charlotte was the artist, so she painted the signs, Margot made little pins with ribbons, Zoey led the songs, and I wrote a little speech for the newspapers to print. None of the rags printed it, naturally. Folks don’t like the idea of women thieving men’s jobs, to begin with, said we should be grateful for the employment, and asking for better pay was asking for trouble. Katherine demanded we get the same wages as the men in our factory, so we marched through the snow and ice.
“How’d that work out for ya?”
“Terribly. As if you didn’t know.” She looked at her hands. “It was dreadful. …how stupid I was for believing like Katherine that it could work, protesting, and such. Our little Joan of Arc even persuaded the children in the factory to strike, and Heaven knows they already get paid next to nothing. Not bringing home pay would mean death. It’s painful to remember how folks hissed and hurled rotten fruit at our picketing circles, watching the children dive after the foul-smelling food like rats…”
Julia glanced up at Muggs to gauge his reaction, expecting surprise. Muggs, however, didn’t appear fazed in the slightest.
“Katherine promised we would win out, that the factory couldn’t survive without us. But days dragged on, and no talk of better pay.” Her light blue eyes glinted with betrayal and frustration. “I think…the whole thing was stupid, Muggs. And she got a reputation from it, bless her.”
Julia slumped down in her chair, smoothing her skirt forcefully.
“Is she destructive?” Muggs asked though he suspected he already knew the answer.
“To herself.” Julia fiddled with her necklace and returned the clasp to the back of her neck along the chain. “To others, by accident.”
“She ever been to jail?”
“Lord, no. Katherine’s very careful about that sort of thing. But she’s broken the law before. Many times. Willingly.”
“Has she killed anyone?”
Julia’s jaw went rigid. Then, she gave a slight shrug that indicated a negative. “It’s not…I suppose that’s something one would keep private. But even if she had, I wouldn’t tell anyone, not even you, Muggs.”
That was as reassuring as a dark alley.
“So, what was the reason you went to live with her in the first place?”
Julia jumped up from the chair as if someone had lit a fire under it, readjusting her coat lapels and buttoning up. “That was so long ago. And I was a different girl then. God, it’s got to be close to midnight now, and Katherine will be wondering where I am if I’m not home. In case she stops by tonight, she’s probably with Spot, but—”
“Julia, slow down—”
“Look, we’ve already scandalized the opera and my parent's friends, and I haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in days, and I have to go to the market tomorrow morning—”
“Just tell me what happened. Please.” Muggs stood to join her, towering over Julia in a most magnificently frightening way.
“I’ve done many foolish things in my life, but running away from a perfectly comfortable future is not one of them!” she shouted.
Running her right hand along her forehead as if she had a headache, Julia faltered to the side, her left hand still threading buttons through holes in her dark tweed coat. “Muggs, I’m exhausted…It’s nothing to do with you. But I don’t want to talk about it. Please don’t make me.”
Julia turned on her heels and headed for the door. Seconds later, trapped in ominous introspection where he stood, Muggs shook his head and grabbed his threadbare coat. “Fuck,” he said quietly, putting on his jacket after deliberately pushing into a raw bruise on his right fist.
Making his way out, he watched Julia on the sidewalk under the streetlamp before she came to sit on a deserted bench with her hands in her lap. Her shadowed expression was ripe with divinations. Nervous and vigilant. Like dark storms would follow because of Muggs’ inquiry.
Staring at her without her knowing makes Muggs feel intoxicated, but not in a dizzy way—more of a too-many pint of all-sorts, hypnotic, tunnel-vision sense. When drunk, Muggs can talk about anything to anyone who’ll listen. He can discuss the train tables and remember the crowded platforms at Grand Central. If Julia doesn’t see him first, he could linger longer than he should, memorizing details about her delicate face and how her hair refuses to stay in a neat updo. But that night, he couldn’t afford to observe her from a distance quietly. He allowed himself a moment to dwell on her slender fingers, her clean and shapely nails, and how smooth the skin of her palm looked. That was enough to summon courage.
“Can I sit with you a while then?”
Julia’s head turned, and he could see how anxious she was. She didn’t look annoyed that he’d followed her outside. Muggs wondered whether she’d ever look annoyed at him following her anywhere. He reckoned it would be soon enough the more she got to know him. Shrugging, she traced a few patterns on her opposite hand and focused her stare on the scarce, slow-moving carriages.
“I ain’t as good with words as you or your Katherine Moore,” Muggs told her. “And you’ve lived in the slums long enough to have experienced bad things. It's probably worse than I’ve ever known. But you’re among the toughest, dead rabbit gals I know.”
“I’m fine.”
Muggs ducked his head, unable to hide the low chuckle that escaped his throat.
“What?”
He shrugged in mimic to the one she’d given him, cracking the smallest of impressed smiles. “You get thrown out of the theater, you tell me running away from your high-class life was one of the smartest things you ever did, and your only friend Moore is the most destructive—”
“Self-destructive…”
“Self-destructive person, you know, and you say you’re fine?” Muggs finished, adding the correction with another half-hearted laugh, shaking his head. “Well, I’d say you’re quite a lady.”
She hadn’t expected him to say that. She didn’t know what he would say, but she didn’t think it would end with a compliment. Her rosy pout turned away from him after a brief pause.
“I don’t ever want you to make you cry,” Muggs explained. “That’s it. You have a right to privacy, so if you don’t wanna talk about the past, I’ll stop asking.” When she still didn’t respond, Muggs took a shallow breath and reclined on the bench, staring down at his hands. “Lex is a lot like you. He doesn’t talk about the bad stuff. He clings to secrets so hard that he gets into a state where he doesn’t eat. For days. ‘Til I ain’t sure he won’t kill himself.”
Neither of them said anything for a good moment. A young newsboy walked by them, blind to the tension that had just become charged between the two strangers on the bench. His cap was ragged, his pace was quick, and his clothes were torn about his shoulders and calves. He was on a mission, looking like someone who was supposed to have sold all his papers hours ago but hadn’t yet. Muggs felt a pang of jealousy at the carelessness this newsboy carried. To only be worried about selling enough evening edition for a supper of pork and beans. Fast and fleeting and ultimately trivial. There are no real stakes. Muggs longed for more fixable problems of that nature. Issues like forgetting to fetch enough water from the pump for a bath or losing a few dimes to a game of dice. He wanted to experience these mundane, trivial obstacles with the young woman beside him. He didn’t want anything else in the world. If Muggs had money to match the amount Julia came from, he wouldn’t mind starving himself on bread and Julia’s biting wit, so long as she got to dress in whatever fine silks she wanted and see all the operas and music concerts her heart desired.
But such a life could never be. It wasn’t in the cards. Muggs didn’t have a giant sum saved away, barely enough to get him through the month. He had a name for himself, but what good was that without the dough to back it up? Drug and Shanghai money could only get him so far.
“That’s what scares me,” Muggs said at length. “So, what scares you?”
“When I was younger?” Julia questioned gently. “Or now?”
“Either.”
Her grin was ambiguous and wobbly, like a glass vase teetering on the edge of a high shelf. “Have you ever felt helpless, Muggs?”
When she said helplessly, Muggs got a strange pit in his stomach, having a small inkling of what she might be implying. The same way he felt sick when he first met Alexei after Colleen claimed a Russian-speaking newsboy had pulled her out of the way from a speeding hansom, saving her life. After asking around, he found the fifteen-year-old boy lying slumped in a corner of a dark, smoke-choked opium den on Mott Street, looking like death. Awful things must’ve happened to him there, Muggs reckoned. He learned the den’s ghoulish-looking hookers had collected his shoes and the money in his wallet as payment for whatever services they’d performed while he’d been knocked out. It was enough to make Muggs want to avoid opium dens for the rest of his life as he dragged his soon-to-be business partner out into the fresh air. Feeling like he’d just pulled Alexei out of the depths of hell, he later watched the kid fall apart and rave and rant from withdrawal in the vacant flat he’d found for himself and Colleen. More opium that had shut Alexei up made Muggs feel less helpless. More cocaine, that’s what brought Muggs to life and made him feel invincible.
“Helpless, like watching a train crash, or helpless like…weak?”
Julia laughed a little, but it came out like an exhale through her nose. “I feel helpless sometimes. Lonely, too. When I dream, I’m still back in my canopy bed from when I was a girl—sitting in the parlor, studying French, or looking over great world maps with a magnifying glass and tending to my little garden in Gramercy Park for hours. I was letting my mind go to all sorts of places, feeling like I was traveling the world, if only for a little while, like Phileas Fogg. I wish I were him, free to run off whenever I please and have lovely adventures. I get lost in those daydreams. They feel so real. And when I’m there in my mind, I don’t feel helpless. Other times, like tonight, I feel so suffocated…and I escape to those places in my head again…I escape so deeply that I’m afraid I won’t come back. I won’t want to come back.”
“Sounds tiring,” Muggs agreed. “I don’t think I dream much anymore.”
“They’re not dreams, but I suppose they fall somewhere between real and fantasy, without much to tether my feet to the ground. Do you know what I mean? Are dreams manifestations of truth, Muggs?”
“What do you perceive as truth or ultimate truth?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Nightmares are memories. Dreams are wishes, I think. But don’t take my word.”
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
“Feeling helpless and wanting dreams to be real ain’t crazy, Jules.”
Julia sighed and looked away from him. Her expression was new to Muggs. She looked weary yet fearless and wholly undone, and instantly, she’d stolen a piece of his heart. He didn’t even think such a thing was possible, as he’d become convinced he had no heart to speak of.
“I see Moore quite a lot these days, more than I’d like,” Muggs said gradually, changing the subject. “She and Alexei like smoking at similar haunts.”
Julia’s worried face pivoted to his in a flash as she drew a quick breath.
“Relax. She isn’t doing more than the average customer. ‘Sides, Lex knows to watch out for her. But I don’t see why she can’t know about us. It’s gotta be a hell of a secret to keep.”
Pursing her lips, Julia shrugged in defeat. “It’s an awful secret to keep from her. It’ll just hurt her, and me, and you. I’m not in the habit of constantly…expressing myself as she is. But if she learned about us, she wouldn’t understand, and I couldn’t blame her. She’s protective of me. And I owe you thanks for keeping it quiet, too. You won’t tell Katherine before I’m ready, right?”
“Sure. I can’t blame Katherine either,” Muggs answered. “I like spending time with you and all, but you’ve seen what kind of life I lead. You weren’t made for that, and I’d never want to drag you down.”
Julia stared at him for a drawn-out pause as if she were analyzing his face, her azure eyes shining strangely. Then she took another deep breath, about to say something when a loud voice called out:
“Are you in trouble, Madam?”
Both Muggs and Julia whipped their heads in the direction of the voice to find a roundsman in full beat-cop uniform advancing toward them at an even stroll.
“All right, you lout, on your feet,” the roundsman with the crooked star badge ordered, pointing his truncheon lazily at Muggs. “I’ve warned hundreds of your kind before to keep away and stop bothering the fine women of the avenue. If you’ve nowhere to go, I can haul your sorry hide to The Tombs.”
Muggs stood to his full height, his breath drawing clouds of ghostly smoke in the cold. “You can’t do nothin’ to me. It’s a free country.”
“Not free to the likes of you, son,” the roundsman said, sounding bored and monotone. “And if you open your trap again, it’s the back of my hand to you. Come on now, get movin’, or I’ll take you to the precinct for harassing this young lady.”
“Oh, he isn’t bothering me, Officer,” Julia said hastily, taking Muggs’ arm quickly and holding onto it as if she’d drift away. “You wouldn’t arrest him for walking a girl home. I don’t live far from here, and he was kind enough to see that I passed through safely.”
“Is that so?” Now, he looked suspicious of Julia, too. Suspicious as to whether she was one of the nicely dressed prostitutes who worked with tough-to-trick unsuspecting clients into blind robbery.
“Besides, taking him in on something like that is unconstitutional. You can’t do it.”
“I’ll say what’s constitutional or not. I can require you by law to come with me.” The roundsman rolled his eyes and checked his pocket watch under the streetlight. “I don’t care that it’ll break the hearts of your sainted mothers. I’m not the slightest bit frightened by rogues like him. Both of you get going, or I’ll run you in for whoring. I will drag you off the street by your ear if needed!”
“The fuck did you just say?” Muggs almost laughed. Almost.
“You heard me. Off with the pair of ye, or I’ll find a cell for you and take her dirty quim to the Sisters of Sorrows. They’ll lock her up for life.”
Muggs looked like he wanted to say more, which would undoubtedly get him cracked on the head with the truncheon, so Julia squeezed his arm tighter and pulled him toward the opposite side of the street.
“Let’s go, come on,” she urged, almost desperate as she persuaded him to move and move fast. “Please, love.”
At the sound of those words, Muggs—now Matthew Tracey once again—allowed himself to be drawn away by Julia, to the sound of her soft voice, to the sweet feeling of her hold on his arm. Being dragged toward something warm and comforting felt much better than being pulled toward something painful and uncertain. He was in a daze for a moment, almost tripping over his large boots as they reached the other sidewalk, forgetting all about the injustice of the New York police, forgetting the misery that awaited him in Brooklyn. She’d called him love. No one had ever called him that. No one is worth remembering, anyway. And she’d meant it, too. At least, part of him hoped she did.
He didn’t even have time to process her sentiment before she spoke again, this time lost and imperative. “It’s far too late to walk, and I haven’t the money for cab fare,” Julia said, watching the flames from glowing, contained fires in nearby saloons lick Muggs’ face like the devil. There was loud fiddle music coming from one such joint. Piercing, joyful tunes of a jig twirled out of the door and soared onto the street. “Where have we got to go? Do you know a place?”
With a wordless nod, Muggs led Julia past unfamiliar side streets and alleys and finally to the heart of Madison Square. When Julia was about to ask how much further this flophouse was, where she assumed he was taking her, Muggs stopped in front of St. Jude’s Church. Curiously, Julia gazed up at the bell tower, observing how unearthly quiet the area was.
With a finger to his lips, Muggs beckoned Julia to follow him through the church gate and into the cemetery. The wooden steps to the church squeaked beneath their feet, indicating how old the building was. Muggs fiddled in his pocket for something to pick the lock with, but Julia tried the handle first, finding it unlocked. She pushed it open, feeling a stale and incensed air draft hit her skin.
Julia’s eyes were electrified, releasing a rush of the deepest and fiercest attack Muggs had ever known. The inside of the church was deserted, save for a few prayer candles burning below a statue of the Virgin Mary. Muggs turned a narrow corner and led Julia up an equally slim, almost hidden, staircase. At the top was a small door with a latch on it, and when he unhitched it, Julia saw a tiny attic space. Muggs struck a match from his pocket against the doorframe, lighting up the small, stuffy room. It smelled snug, like an old sweater, but Julia wasn’t frightened. She was relieved to escape cursed Manhattan's dark, cold streets.
“So, you’ve slept here before,” Julia asked with some certainty to her question.
“Never alone, but yes,” he said, pulling a patched quilt from a chest and shaking out the dust. He remembered when he and Colleen slept there during their brief stay in Manhattan after running away. “I figured it beats a flophouse or the streets.”
“Unbelievable,” she said, getting that bit stuck in her throat. Never alone. Of course, he’d brought other girls up there before. When was the last time Muggs Tracey spent a night by himself?
Julia lingered in the attic doorway, muttering something in a Romance language, and Muggs gazed at her dumbly for a moment.
“I don’t speak French,” Muggs said, puzzled. “Or Italian. Not sure…which one that was.”
Scowling, Julia spun around toward the stairs, and Muggs went after her, closing the door again as if it had never been opened.
Julia crossed into the church's nave, arms folded across her ample bosom. She’d unbuttoned her coat, and her white blouse sharpened her complexion, making her hair golden and her eyes more cobalt.
Pivoting on her heel, she threw her hands up in exasperation at Muggs. For a moment, he thought he’d have to dodge a punch.
“We’re not exclusive, I know,” she snapped. “Women flirt with you everywhere. They practically throw themselves at you. And when I’m not with you, I know where you will likely be. You go to dives and halls, and you drink and dance with these women who want to get in your pants, and you let them! No regrets! No remorse! Every night and every day, you’re so afraid to be alone! Desperate. And I think to myself, Tell him how you feel, but I don’t know how, so I think, What if he finds another girl, and he never knows…that I care for him so. How can I tell you I need you without sounding…helpless?”
Catching her breath, she relaxed and straightened her posture again, trying to look unbreakable. “I only want you,” she confessed.
Muggs kissed her so forcefully Julia stumbled slightly off-kilter, but he grabbed her bony hip with one hand while the other traveled from her collarbone to her throat to her jaw. He began to break the kiss, pulling away to see if she was furious with him, but she pulled his face back to hers at once, her soft mouth opening and turning into her usual smile.
Muggs recognized that smile, sending his heart into a compelling, warm spiral.
He discovered many significant things about the uptown girl at that moment. For one, her lips are nothing short of wonder. Sincere, alluring, supple. Nebulously jubilant when they dragged their way across Muggs’ mouth and along his jaw. That’s how it felt in front of God and whoever else was watching.
Wanting nothing more than to keep feeling her touch, Muggs continued to kiss her. He didn’t even realize they were moving until Julia’s back hit the altar, and Muggs broke the kiss again to pick her up and sit her down on the cracked marble. She opened her legs, and he moved to stand between them, pulling his mouth away from hers once again to see if her neck tasted as sweet as her tongue.
It did.
“I don’t like to be held down,” she breathed out of nowhere, staring at Muggs with watery eyes, seeming unsure why she’d blurted that out just then. “Or suffocated.”
Muggs paused and met her gaze, running his fingers through her hair, which had come undone in the scuffle.
“I don’t like to be tied up,” he rasped with a slight shrug, storing her grievances in a particular place and hoping she’d do the same for his. “Or drugged.”
Upon hearing this, Julia nodded breathlessly, searching his eyes as she moved forward and pressed her forehead to his. “I trust you,” she whispered.
“I trust you, too.”
Julia’s answer to those words was to shove Muggs’ coat off his arms and let it fall to the floor. Taking that as a green light, Muggs leaned in and caught her mad, beautiful lips with his own again.
Muggs had done many foolish things in his twenty-three years. But kissing Julia like it was the first and last time was not an item on that list.
He didn’t fully register his exhaustion until Julia smoked a carefully hand-rolled cigarette beside him in the church attic. He noticed how her eyelids became heavy as she exhaled clouds of smoke, her mouth kissing the sheets of tobacco-filled paper whenever she went in for another drag. She was smoking it in an already stuffy room, but Muggs was never going to complain. She was slumped against two old pews, lying between them on the ground beside Muggs, covered warmly by heaps of worn quilts. And she tried her best not to let cigarette ash flake off onto the intricate lace on one such blanket.
She should look out of place, lying on hard ground in a freezing attic. But instead, she looks radiant.
Muggs was preoccupied with the gentle dip along her tiny waist, tracing patterns along her prominent hip bone. Her skin was so smooth there, save for a crescent-shaped and faded scar on her right hip, and he couldn’t stop running his index finger over the outline. Muggs couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so genuine in his movements, words, and moans. He wasn’t pretending or mimicking. He was interested in giving Julia pleasure, without expectation of trade in kind, content to take as long as she wanted. A passionate, tantalizing, aching tryst with a comely young woman lifted on a sacred altar with her thighs parted and legs wrapped around him while they both barely shed any clothes wasn’t enough to tell her how much she meant to him, far from it. Muggs was very fond of Julia and didn’t want to take her body for granted any time soon. And with that appreciation, Muggs discovered a moon-shaped scar on her right hip where a depression juts out from the bone. He knew now that when he kissed just above her collarbone and under her jaw, Julia couldn’t help but give a girlish giggle. He also knew that she had a sweet, daisy-like taste under her skirts and past her drawers, unlike any other dress he’d been beneath.
“Something’s on your mind,” Julia said, bringing Muggs back to the present. She stared at him, a bit silhouetted by the smoke that escaped her lips.
“I think I might’ve been too rough with you.”
Julia laughed a little. “You’re talking like you took my virginity. I’d tell you if it was too rough.”
“I meant in the theater.”
“Oh.” Julia paused, not wanting to meet his eyes.
Muggs could tell she didn’t want to talk about it. Not yet, anyway. Outside the attic window, the sky had turned a miserable blue-black shade. Muggs stared at Julia’s earlobe, brushing sweaty strands of hair out of the way, and took it between his lips, biting slightly.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Julia said. “A pathetic secret, maybe. But the reason I ran away—it wasn’t because I didn’t want to go to finishing school or piss off my parents. I miss my piano teacher, the maids, and the old yellow cat that used to hang around the kitchen. But I couldn’t stay there anymore, not after what happened. I was always haunted by my father’s attorney, in my sleep or awake. He has spent much time at our house since I was five. I knew him for a man when I was eight or so. God, I was so afraid, so terribly, dreadfully afraid. He’d say I should be grateful that he was a good and respectable man and that the poor ones—the match girls and the flower sellers—weren’t lucky enough to be taught the proper ways of young ladies. So, I thought, to hell with it. I’d run off to join their ranks because if that was the proper way, and my mama and papa said nothing, I wanted no part in it. When I left at twelve, I wasn’t afraid anymore for the first time in years. I could breathe in Brooklyn. Sleep through the night. You know? I wasn’t constantly daydreaming, letting life slip through my fingers. I wasn’t alone. I had prospects. I had Katherine. A new family. I felt safe.”
Muggs felt something sting and burn his eyes.
“I, um…” he started, feeling a hundred different kinds of sick. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”
“I never told you. I’ve never really told anyone.”
“Do you want a secret from me, then?”
Julia mulled it over. Her full lips pressed against each other in a slight pout in the same charming way they always did when she was conflicted. She put out her cigarettes against the floorboards. Without waiting for a response, Muggs propped himself on one arm and began mindlessly stroking her left arm.
“I used to make deals with guards on Randall’s Island so they’d leave my sister alone,” he said, almost to himself. It was so quiet. “Deals I ain’t proud of.”
“You were her hero,” Julia concluded, tracing a series of fading bruises on Muggs' shoulder. “You did your best with her, with what you had been handed. She adored you unconditionally, even if she never knew how much you did. You know that, right?”
Muggs didn’t know that to be true. But he badly wanted to grasp those words and accept them as Gospel.
“You don’t like being alone,” Julia continued. “But you’re so damn good at pushing others away. And it’s a shame, too, because I feel safe right here with you. You make me feel less alone. That’s all you.”
Leaning close, Muggs hovered above her. Julia smiled evenly at him, lightly touching a long, skinny scar that started on his shoulder and ran to the small of his back – a remnant of the cats visible from the front, unlike the others on his back. Muggs didn’t flinch as she did so curiously.
“You ain’t afraid of me?” He asked.
Julia shook her head.
“You’ve taught me something significant.”
Muggs looked baffled for a moment. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“About the nightmares. About the past.”
He waited for her to go on, his eyes going from her lips to the way her throat moved when she swallowed to the bead of sweat trailing down the skin exposed by her open corset.
“We can go our whole lives allowing it to keep us in chains, to hold us prisoner, too afraid to look back.” Julia licked her lips, feeling her eyes water as she picked up his chin so he held her gaze again. “Or we can face it in all its darkness. And use that strength to bring light to those who suffer, too.”
Muggs gave a slight shrug, studying her face in the slivers of grey winter light from the blackened sky. His weary bones were relieved to be cuddled beside someone so sweet, soft, and kind. “Do you think that’s something we’re born knowing how to do?”
“No. It’s a choice we learn to make,” Julia replied in a steady whisper, her lips drawing ever closer to his. “If that weren’t so, you and I would be dead long ago.”
Muggs was sure the slight smile that crept over his face looked strange. He figured Julia was dreaming again, sounding more idealistic and optimistic by the second, but he appreciated the love behind her words. He could feel it rising in his chest slowly like a long fuse. He desperately wanted her to be correct. If he had as much time as Julia seemed to think, things could improve with time. Perhaps he was more than just a peripheral specter in her life.
“You’re smiling, but your eyes look sad. That’s quite a trademark look of yours, Tracey,” Julia remarked in a soft, teasing voice and then reached up to run her hands through his mess of ink-black hair. “Would you feel better if you kissed me again?”
Julia Hawthorne can read the soul like a book. Even the fading-fast soul of a cocaine-wasted, tar-hearted outlaw like Muggs Tracey. So he moved down and kissed her as dawn approached the city's horizon. As he did, nothing else mattered, not for a divinely uninterrupted thread of sinful moments.
Chapter 6: Cooked Opium
Summary:
Muggs met Alexei’s eyes finally, and his lips curled with dim delight. “Seems damn suicidal, now that I think about it.” Muggs was quiet momentarily, tracing the rim of his glass with an index finger. “Swear to me you won’t starve yourself into nothin’ or smoke your head into oblivion while I’m gone. That’s as dangerous as any leap of death. I’m always uneasy comin’ back on the chance I’ll find your opium-riddled, skeletal corpse.”
“I have Elena, in case anything happens to you,” Alexei replied as he reached for the bottle, pouring some into the tea. “And now you have Julia. I’ll never understand. They’re keen on keeping us alive. Ain’t nothing we can do about it.”
“These modern women,” Muggs muttered into the bottle of mixed vodka, “will be the death of me.” He threw back a shot and leaned into the spicy, salty taste.
Notes:
Please note: This chapter may include themes and language that could be considered sensitive or offensive to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
January 1902
Brooklyn, NY
A knock sounded out beyond the opium haze.
Alexei walked to the flat door, picking up a pocketknife. Perpetually drained, sick to his stomach, humming with vicious and unsettling images from the opium fever dream he’d just woken up from. Pressing his ear against the wood, Alexei gripped the knife he used to butcher trespassers tightly in his hand.
Beyond the door stood Julia Hawthorne, as if there was one more surprise left in the world, with Muggs’ taut body leaning absurdly against her twig-like frame—so it looked like she was holding him up more than she was holding onto him. Alexei had seen Muggs drunk before, but something was different this time. He was surprised a tipsy Julia had the strength of body and mind to corral Muggs from the saloon and dance hall without giving up and leaving him in an alley to sleep it off. It was a good thing Alexei didn’t bet money on it. For his part, Muggs looked like he was about to drop to the ground from dizziness, which meant he must’ve ingested something other than alcohol. Six different possible drugs. Five, as this wasn’t the work of cocaine. Alexei wondered for a moment if Muggs had mixed opium with alcohol again despite him warning the Yankee that those two things weren’t meant to be taken in tandem. If Muggs had stolen some of Alexei’s opium and located a pipe somewhere, then Alexei, indeed, was a surefire fool.
“Jesus Christ,” Alexei managed. “You’re a sight. Get in, dammit. Muggs, give me your arm.”
“Don’t let him strangle you like he nearly did me,” Julia replied exhaustedly.
No such drastic measures were taken. Alexei wrestled with Muggs for a moment, prying him off Julia, and managed to sling one of Muggs’ biceps over his shoulder, dragging him across the threshold, wondering how Julia had gotten him up the stairs. Julia trailed them, folding Muggs’ discarded coat in her hands so it couldn’t become any worse for wear than it was. Not that Muggs would’ve cared either way. Alexei never knew Muggs to throw out any clothing unless it hung off him like rags.
Once they got to the back room, Alexei let his friend drop to the floor, shy of Muggs’ mattress. He didn’t do it to be vindictive but because he was damn near exhausted himself. Muggs groaned slightly as Alexei grabbed his arms again and pulled him onto the mattress so his torso could drag along the splintery floor.
“What the fuck is wrong with him,” Alexei muttered.
“I wonder that at least once a day,” Julia teased, tiredly smoothing her starched blouse and skirt. “Because under that phony charm, he’s got nothing else. Save for a considerable asset.”
“Was that a dirty joke from an uptown girl?” Alexei observed with a surprised smirk.
“You thought I was incapable of that sort of thing, I take it.”
“Well, fine ladies ain’t much for it.”
“If it’s any consolation to your preconceived notions, I haven’t lost all my manners,” Julia went on with a sigh, looking down at Muggs from where he drifted in and out of his morphine-ether-benzyne coma.
“Rest assured, Lex, she rides me side-saddle,” Muggs could mumble before receiving Julia's swift kick in the leg.
Alexei broke into an easy grin, admiring her even more after that. It took a lot of sand to look as sainted as she did and think like a sinner. If a sweet-looking, poison-tongued, society runaway had carried Muggs home, away from further danger and stupidity, Alexei would be thankful to that girl every day for the rest of his life.
“What happened to him? I thought there was supposed to be a fight?”
“After I made sure Katherine was safe and sound in bed, I came back to find your purblind scoundrel had gotten so inebriated and indisposed, he made a bet with a longshoreman at Lucifer’s that he could jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and live,” she sniffed. “But all the daughters of liberty in the joint love and revere Matthew so much that they couldn’t watch him execute such a…stupid stunt. They protested. Adamantly. The ones who’d never been with him before,” she threw in, smiling sarcastically at Alexei’s thoughtful expression. “It’s fair to say I’m his only regular girl in Brooklyn, maybe, at least…for God’s sake. I’m pretty sure I am. There’s a terrible plight, Alexei. Well, the bunny-blowers hated the idea of this bet, too, on account of him selling them cocaine and whatnot. Alas, I was sentenced to see him to safety, and to make him sensible, I slipped a drop of laudanum in his whiskey. Muggs got a bit rough once he realized we were headed back here, wanting to make for the bridge to win the bet, frustrated I had grasped his shirt so tightly. He got angry and flung his cap into a pig trough. And I refused to reach my hands into that sludge. So... there you have it.”
Alexei was feeling for a pulse on his friend’s wrist. The way his chest heaved, it seemed likely he wasn’t dead. The split lip he’d had a few days ago looked much better as if someone had given it a proper inspection, tending to, and care.
Julia, you’re welcome here anytime, Alexei agreed.
”I doubt he’s eaten today, which would account for how fast the liquor took him down,” she mused.
Muggs sniffed, his glassy eyes narrowing in protest. “No, that’s not true. I had coffee this morning. I’m good, Jules.”
Julia rolled her eyes, looking to Alexei for support, and then realized who she was talking to.
“Did I at least bring him to you in one piece?” Julia asked, sincerely concerned.
“We’re lucky to have you,” Alexei replied. We are trying to make up for Muggs’ inappropriate behavior.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Julia snickered as she headed for the main room again. “By the time he comes to—I hope you’re well enough to look after him, and he said you were likely to be in Wonderland by now—you’ll hate me. Muggs is impatient and needy when he wakes up with a laudanum-fused hangover. I’ll even pray for you, and it’s so insufferable. In the meantime, I’ve got to get back to Katherine.”
Alexei was too worried about Muggs to visit Elena as initially planned. He wasn’t afraid his friend had overdosed. He feared that if he left Muggs to his own devices, the brainless rogue would force his destroyed body up and try for the bridge again. To avoid such a turn, Alexei went to the makeshift kitchen and made a fresh cup of strong coffee. Muggs endures the shakiness and nausea with remarkable calm, and how his skin loses all blood circulation has never fazed him. But he looked terrible that night. That tipped Alexei off to make the strong coffee and—if that failed to steady him—a small basin in case he vomited. Alexei located one atop a cupboard.
Luckily, Alexei was only left to his panicked thoughts for under an hour. He was staring at a spider in the corner of the bare room, darting in and out of a crack in the wall, when Muggs stirred violently, resembling a stowaway who’d creeped out from below a ship’s deck.
“How the hell,” he began hoarsely, “did I get here?”
“You have Julia to thank for that,” Alexei said warmly. “Laudanum hasn’t worn off yet, I see.”
“I do? That little flaxen field mouse.”
“She’s a blessing.”
Muggs ran a hand through his hair twice. “Thought you were mad at me for tryin’ to fight Burke.”
“I don’t care no more.”
“How’s that?” He inquired, rubbing the back of his hand over the saliva on his lips.
“I figured you were off your head, but then I realized it was something you needed to do.”
Muggs hacked an alarming amount of phlegm and spat it into the basin Alexei placed beside him. He wiped his watery, bloodshot eyes with the hem of his shirt.
“Somethin’ I needed to do, Lex?”
“For her, I think. Colleen.”
“Not just,” Muggs rasped as he wiped his mouth again. “For all of ‘em.”
“I gathered.”
Alexei had gone the eight years he’d known Muggs convinced his friend’s filthiest habits were shanghaiing, cocaine blowing, and other forms of evil. Even if he participated, Alexei didn’t think he could ever excuse those crimes. Muggs would never seek Alexei’s forgiveness, not in so many words. But knowing what Muggs had done to protect Colleen, something so low it was best kept on that island… somehow, that was the one thing Alexei could wrap his head around and empathize with. There were many nights when Muggs wouldn’t come home, and Alexei wondered if he'd ever see him again. That soon, Matthew Tracey would be a fading memory, as if he had never been there in the first place. But then he’d remember how Muggs would fry ham with mashed apples, lard, and basil and force Alexei to eat the delicious-smelling soakage grub on darker days when the Russian boy hadn’t eaten for a week. He’d remember when Muggs would go on a cocaine bender and deep clean the flat until the floor was suitable to eat off, the windows were polished, the blankets were scrubbed and hung out to dry, and the dead rats were cleared away. Alexei needed a new pair of shoes one winter, and Muggs got creative and stole the same size boots from a dead man in an alley to give to his friend. Alexei thought about how courageous Muggs was in taking a beating from their boss when Alexei let some kidnapped girls go. Alexei thought about why Muggs did it. Thinking about those instances, he realized how much he feared the day Muggs wouldn’t walk through that door.
“You got any coffee made?” Muggs muttered hesitantly, squinting his tired eyes.
“Always.”
“How do I look?”
“Like death.”
And he did. The worst was yet to come—the vomiting and sweats and chills that would find Muggs leaning over the basin and groaning, lasting for about twenty minutes. That period came and went, leaving Muggs stumbling to the grimy sink to splash water over his face and chest.
Alexei fried some eggs in a skillet on the stove and poured a glass of room-temperature ginger ale. The darkened sky cast sinister shadows along the inside of the flat, and Alexei started a small fire in the chimney to keep them warm. The building was unbearably freezing. It was turning into a quietly vigilant night. Alexei brewed a pot of lemon tea for himself, poured it into a cup, and sat down at the table with Muggs, who’d been served the eggs and ginger ale. Muggs was inspecting the opium pipe on the table, his eyelids heavy.
“I don’t understand why you like tea. Tastes like rag water,” Muggs said.
“Julia seemed upset with you.”
Muggs was too half-drunk and half-hungover to mourn correctly. However, he stabbed an egg with his fork, which was a little more complicated than usual. “I hate ginger ale,” he said carefully, staring at the glass before him. “Ain’t we got any vodka left, you hostile dopehead?”
Alexei muttered to himself in Russian, getting up abruptly, grabbing the bottle of half-empty vodka from the cupboard, and slamming it down in front of Muggs. “I swear, you go deaf when I speak, Muggs,” he said pointedly, in the same tone he’d use if he were reciting a prayer. “But fine. Drink more. That’ll solve it.”
Muggs poured some of the vodka into the ginger ale, mixing it. He didn’t look Alexei in the eye while he took an experimental sip, knowing in half that his blonde friend was right. Immediately, he clutched at his head, reeling from the headache he’d brought on from his small act of stupidity.
“That’s about right,” Alexei said bitterly. “Muggs, you did this to yourself. But please don’t go making bets about jumping off no bridges. You wouldn’t survive it, and neither would I.”
Muggs met Alexei’s eyes finally, and his lips curled with dim delight. “Seems damn suicidal, now that I think about it.” Muggs was quiet momentarily, tracing the rim of his glass with an index finger. “Swear to me you won’t starve yourself into nothin’ or smoke your head into oblivion while I’m gone. That’s as dangerous as any leap of death. I’m always uneasy comin’ back on the chance I’ll find your opium-riddled, skeletal corpse.”
“I have Elena, in case anything happens to you,” Alexei replied as he reached for the bottle, pouring some into the tea. “And now you have Julia. I’ll never understand. They’re keen on keeping us alive. Ain’t nothing we can do about it.”
“These modern women,” Muggs muttered into the bottle of mixed vodka, “will be the death of me.” He threw back a shot and leaned into the spicy, salty taste.
A little after four in the morning, Spot found himself wandering toward the bridge, knowing Muggs was more likely to be sleeping off his hangover than anywhere else. It was too soon for him to be getting ready for work at the railyards, and given a look on Julia’s face at Lucifer’s, it seemed unlikely she’d snuck him back to her stylish lodgings in Williamsburg. The sun was peeking over the horizon, glistening off the headscarves of modest Jewish homemakers heading to the bakeries and the glean of sweat on the manes of horses pulling carriages. As Spot had expected, when he stood before the dilapidated, hellish building in Water Street, there was a glow of candlelight on a fourth-floor window mantle, the floor Alexei and Muggs had occupied for almost ten years.
Stepping over drunks prone on the first-floor saloon, Spot took the stairs two at a time, getting up to the fourth level at record speed. Without hesitation, he wrapped three times on the door with the busted handle. Finding it unlocked, Spot poked his head in to discover Alexei missing, though Muggs wasn’t alone. It seemed Spot wasn’t the only one who thought Muggs could benefit from a good beating over the head with prudence.
“What the hell did I miss?” Spot questioned, stepping further into the flat.
Julia Hawthorne leaned against the table in the boys’ kitchenette among the gleaming glass bottles of spirits and medicines, the jar of Queen's maple syrup, and the bowl of extracted olive oil for flour and water slurry. She scowled in Muggs’ direction with the look Elizabeth Bathory must’ve worn when she realized that bathing in the blood of her chambermaids would be a worthy sport. Julia should have been perched on a precious gemstone-encrusted throne, ready to deal sentences for traitors. She wore a clean bottle-green shawl and an identical apron, and her ample bosom rose as she breathed in annoyance. Spot had never known her elegant face to be capable of souring in such a way. For that matter, Spot had never known Muggs to look so worried by a meager glare from a woman.
Muggs’ appearance was typical of his hangovers and post-orgy benders—worn, bare-chested, dressed in wrinkled trousers with suspenders dangling at his sides, eyes reddened with dark under circles that almost resembled bruises. He reclined on a chair in the kitchenette, not at the table, but on the smaller seat where Colleen used to sit when she’d shuck corn or skin carrots. He looked disappointed, as though Julia had slapped him before Spot walked in.
“What haven’t you missed?” Julia retorted and then stopped, placing her hands on her hips.
“Is Kate okay?” Spot offered with healthier thoughtfulness.
“I’m sorry, Spot. It’s been a long night. Have you gotten any sleep yet? Katherine’s alright and now well-acquainted with Henry James, whom we ran into at the midnight salon on Fulton. He partakes in nitrous oxide as regularly as smelling salts.”
“What, seriously? After snappin’ at him, you have no problem sayin’ sorry. Got it,” Muggs observed harshly, slumping in the chair as he shoved his hands in his pockets. He pushed his long legs out from under the chair into a V, still clad in his unlaced boots. Height made the action more impressive, and nobody could make such a spread more threatening than Muggs. Alexei lounged like a dazed opium-eater who wasn’t revolving in the same direction as Earth. Muggs sprawled like he was laying a trap, daring his opponents to let their guard down before he pounced despite the ghostly-sick pallor the hangover brought.
“Forgive me, Matthew. I offer you my honest apology,” Julia murmured. “I’m very sorry for insinuating that you meant to throw the fight for the good of the status quo. I herewith voice my grief that I wasn’t quick to understand you intended to throw away your livelihood on a selfish impulse. Pardon my judgment.”
“You’re on thin ice, little miss,” Muggs stated, pointing at her with a shaky forefinger. “Don’t push me. I won’t be as nice.”
“Fine, it wasn’t an impulse. Then why’d you do it?” Spot took off his flat cap and placed it on the back of a chair. “Sure as shit wasn’t a sound plan.”
“Burke’s been stuck in my craw for years,” Muggs tiffed. “He’s as crumby a businessman as he is a benefactor. The city wouldn’t have noticed if I’d lost and would’ve shaken my hand if I’d won, and besides, the idea that Lex and I would be game for ruinin’ a young Italian lass as payment for startin’ up our trade again, snatchin’ and sendin’ chits to him…well, that lit the match in the powder barrel.”
“Burke promised physical payment as an incentive if Muggs and Alexei started shanghaiing for him,” Spot clarified to Julia’s puzzled eyes. “It wouldn’t have been of the…um, equally consenting nature.”
“He’s a monster,” Julia agreed, not seeming astonished or any less furious. “I was hired a few months back to play piano for a bazaar at the Endicott Hotel and found Burke bothering a kitchen girl as I was looking for the lavatory. The poor thing was distressed, so I purposefully dropped my champagne flute. She took off, and I sped oppositely as if hell were at my heels.”
“He’s a monster, and you were keen to gun for him and not me durin’ the fight?” Muggs complained.
“Damn right, since he’s a monster who now hates you, Matthew.”
“Aces.” Muggs raked fingers through his hair opulently. “It’s about time he hated me. Shit, I’ve been itchin’ to organize his workers myself.”
“Too late now,” Spot retorted, “’cause it seems like some feisty little dame is on the case. The pipes burst in one of his factories at Sutter Place a couple of days ago—tampered with, more like. Caused a boy to fall from a beam and crack his head.”
“Jesus,” Julia inhaled.
Muggs made a click with his tongue. “Another New York guttersnipe meets his maker prematurely? For God’s sake, Spot, you don’t think a girl’s capable of draconian sabotage, do you?”
“Word is, if you publicly apologize to Burke and take back all you said—maybe let him knock you around a bit—he’ll desist from completely ending you.”
Julia fiddled with her hands. “Matthew—”
Muggs glared at the young woman with such intensity it might’ve turned her to stone. “I already know what you think. You think I ought to castrate myself in front of that preenin' snob who condones the battering of his female workers, and after I told most of the women of Brooklyn Heights that one of their men—who’s also their drug dealer and their hired muscle—will ensure them a safer livelihood more than some depraved business person who likes puttin' his dick in anything that moves, no matter if it hasn’t asked for. Skip the cheap theatrics.”
Fishing a hand into her pocket for a hand-rolled cigarette, Julia sighed and sagely departed for the back room.
“Jules!” Muggs shouted to the door she’d slammed behind her, his tender and furious tone.
Spot steadied himself, semi-inclined, on the back of a chair. Muggs ran both hands over his face in a dramatic gesture, sending Spot a jade-eyed stare.
Spot was suddenly urged to ask why you acted like that and then expected folks to roll over. Spot didn’t know the reason. All he could feel was the familiar storm of unease over Muggs’ playing fast-and-loose. But this time was different. This time, he understood. And that wasn’t productive.
“For as long as I’ve known you,” Spot pondered softly, rather than arguing, “you’ve never hit a woman. Most of the lowlifes you’ve dealt with can justify battering hot corn girls. Hell, some ain’t above killing the prostitutes in Corlear’s Hook.”
Muggs fell silent, slipping into a daze, distractedly pushing into a bruise on his wrist. “There are two types in this city. Fellas that have been locked up on the island and fellas that ain’t.”
Not expecting such a reply, Spot looked at him. In 1897—three years after he’d left Mary’s boarding house—Muggs had fallen off the face of the earth, along with Alexei. Their hedonistic worship of opium, cocaine, and alcohol had gotten them thrown on Randall’s Island after they were found passed out in an alleyway by the wrong cop. The reformatory in the East River was a Spartan corrective institution that employed brutal beatings to teach obedience and respect for authority. Muggs and Alexei’s obedience and respect for authority hadn’t grown favorably, as to be expected, and as Spot’s mind recalled the dreadful sight of their torn-up backs and the wild grins they’d worn when they went swimming in the river for the first time since getting released, both emaciated after half a year, a blazing detestation for the place seared in his bones.
This sudden revelation, however—after he’d been able to chew on the comment, Spot’s heart skipped a beat. Muggs observed the abrupt emotional shift on Spot’s face, noting the fear, and shrugged.
“I didn’t. But it’s true, Conlon, that the guards on that island wanted the girls who didn’t want it. And, well…I had my little sister to worry about. I can still picture how she looked—blonde braids, too skinny, with an eerie glint in her eyes. One night, she woke me up and told me ghosts were in her dorm. She asked to sleep in bed with Lex or me. She’d even brought her blanket. I couldn’t let her do that, savvy. We’d all three get in trouble. I was a stupid eighteen-year-old then, but I’ll regret not lettin' her stay with me or Lex until the day I die.”
Looking away fleetingly, Spot sniffed in understanding.
Like a lightning strike, he recalled the countless times Muggs had treated Colleen wrong. But there were better times among them, too. Stealing apples and delicious leavings for her from the saloon below their den, affectionately calling her Leeny and absently playing with her hair, braiding or brushing, while they lounged on the sofa or at the table or in line at the market. Spot recalled when he loathed Muggs yet told him that Medda Larkson was collecting Colleen’s pay at the Hall for her “Refuge grace period.” Coked-up as Muggs had been at the time, and with Spot’s heart racing beyond its normal parameters, the younger newsie remembered the distorted wince of disgust that overtook Muggs’ features. Spot remembered buying into the rumors that Muggs was why his older brother was sent to Sing Sing. And believing Muggs had pimped his sister to make easy money after he left the boarding house.
That kind of regret and remorse, to Spot, felt like a teeming pool of bile brewing in his stomach. He wanted to change the subject quickly lest he feel any more seasick.
“Do you take Burke’s threats seriously? Not only on your reputation but also on your life? You may be irresponsible and cocaine-addicted under normal circumstances, but you aren’t crazy. Though there are times when your sanity ought to be questioned,” Spot furthered callously before he could stop himself. “For all the kidnapping you did.”
It was essentially a disagreement in morality. Muggs believed selling street girls to warm and clean brothels was an act of mercy, sparing them a life of starvation and misery alone and unprotected and sparing them from places like the Refuge. Spot believed it was a damaging trade meant to keep Muggs fed and clothed and without shelter himself.
Seeking a kindred spirit, Spot marched out of the kitchenette to the cozy—yet dubiously plastered with cut-out articles of gruesome escapades—back room. Julia’s ominous cigarette fume blanketed the room with burnt coffee and chemically unpleasant herbs. She squared her intense azure eyes at him once he dropped into a rickety chair. Muggs joined them in the methodically tidy back room as if on cue, wanting to finish annoying Spot into a surrender.
“And anyway, why should I care about some bloody conglomerate if the good men of this city would rather kill a copper than let them crack the heads of strikin' workers?” Muggs paused in the doorway. Julia determinedly paid him no mind.
“There’s a lot of establishment puppets in this city,” Spot contended.
“Yeah, wealthy folks, and what you know of Brooklyn’s labor unions and insider trading don’t count for much.”
“You make it sound so cut and dry.”
“That’s because it is, and you’re actin' like a first-rate infant. Burke and his type, all those new-monied factory managers who give their employees raw oatmeal and poor pay, they’re churnin' out goods for the rich. The clothes, the furniture, the animal feed, the flour, the textiles stained with the blood of girls’ prickin' their fingers in machines—”
“I get it, trust me,” Spot grumbled. “I ain’t dumb.”
“Do you get it? ‘Cause sometimes I ain’t sure.”
“Well, you’re the one who purposely sent red region and native sulfur atop a ward boss!”
“Have you had enough, the both of you?” Julia asked in a mutter. “It’s like you two are fighting over the lower bunk in jail. You sound like little boys.”
“How the hell would that yellow-bellied Burke hurt me?” Muggs snarled, folding his arms against his bare chest and leaning against the doorframe. “I mean, besides spittin' on me 'til I drown. The way I see it—”
“He’ll go after Julia,” Spot snapped, thoroughly bewildered. He turned to look him in the eye. “And Nell Anderson’s been asking about you for a reason.”
“Please, spare me that bullshit,” Muggs scoffed. “Burke won’t come near Julia if I have my way, and Nell Anderson, of all people, don’t scare me. What else you got?”
Julia Hawthorne, who’d been trying to ignore the conversation and finding it difficult, focused on the dark pattern of Muggs’ bed quilt. Guys like Muggs were quickly sent to Sing Sing for long sentences if you had the judge in your pocket, and it was nearly impossible to get anyone out once inside. Given Muggs’ criminal record and reputation, it wouldn’t be hard to send him away, leaving Julia alone. It might be just as easy to see Julia dealing with the situation similarly if the money was right.
“Fine,” Spot countered sarcastically, “Burke won’t come near Julia. Anderson has her eye on you and happens to work in close contact with him, but you’re right. He won’t hurt her. He wouldn’t care to ruin a girl you sleep with. He probably knows you have plenty of them. It ain’t like the two of you are actually in love or anything.”
The room fell silent. Julia kept studying the stitching on the quilt as her face flushed scarlet. Muggs didn’t reply. He grabbed the shirt from the back of the chair and put it on as if suddenly caught a chill. Neither spoke, and the silence became so deafening that Spot could practically read their thoughts…perfectly.
Spot’s jaw clenched and then relaxed.
“Wait, you’re kidding,” Spot mumbled, rubbing his eyes tiredly and stretching. He tried not to come off too surprised as his back hit the wall. He couldn’t help it. It was so out of character for Muggs. That’s all. “Jesus, you’re kidding.”
“Spot,” Julia tried, sounding embarrassed, “We—”
“Shit, you care about each other like that?”
“Good Lord, you haven’t let me finish!”
“Sorry, it’s just strange to know either of you was capable of such feelings.”
“Take a breath before you asphyxiate, you apple-pated dolt,” Muggs commanded.
Spot exhaled slowly, not realizing he was close to choking before Muggs said anything, now frantic. He walked over to Muggs and shoved him forcefully. “You better hope neither Burke nor Anderson nor anyone else of that ilk knows what she means to you if that’s so. Once that gets out, Burke will probably have you arrested, and God knows what to her.”
Unfazed by the shove, Muggs angled his head away and began laughing over his shoulder. “I ain’t the one in love here. And neither is the dead-rabbit society girl who seems to have lost her tongue. You’re the one in love with Moore. I am also not the limp-dick businessman who’s too thick to see Brooklyn’s working class won’t let one of their own be sent upriver on some trumped-up charges. You’re completely, one hundred percent—”
“Correct,” Spot snapped.
“Grossly underestimating,” Julia supposed with a soft sigh.
“Batshit-crazy,” Muggs insisted. “Right now, I’ve got a whole borough of immigrants on my side, coves that I fight for and drink with and sell drugs to. If Burke does anything to me, they’re left lacking. He ain’t going to come after me.”
“Okay, before you two resort to punches, I’m leaving. Go on, give each other broken noses. Be stupid,” Julia announced, getting to her feet.
“There’s an idea,” Spot mumbled.
“Sure as hell is,” Muggs retorted. “Julia, are you seriously leaving?”
“Why would I stay?” Julia replied with a too-cheerful grin that dithered and didn’t reach the rest of her face. “I think I’ll go back to my apartment, soak in the bath to drown my regrets, then pour a glass of brandy to wash them away again, maybe light my hair on fire. It’s not like you care about my well-being. You’ll be lonely at night for a while.”
“Mother of God, what is your problem?” Muggs groaned, raking long fingers through his hair and nearly ripping at the roots.
“She’s probably worried Burke will do something to you,” Spot postulated. “But not her. You know, since you just made it very clear, you aren’t interested in anything but fucking. You don’t love her.”
“Oh, so you’re allowed to fuck your woman without proposin' marriage, but I can’t—”
“That just about does it. I’ll get out of your way,” Julia said urgently, heading for the parlor again.
“Jules, in all honesty, I would be fuckin’ peached if you wouldn’t sod off when I’m about to wage war on a corrupt ward boss and need your brain, intuition, and presence,” Muggs spat just as Julia reached the front door. “Quit runnin' away and stay with me.”
Julia hesitated, panting a sigh that seemed more like she’d had the wind knocked out of her than a gesture of humor. “And if I don’t?” she queried.
“Christ, why do you gotta make everything an argument, you light-footed hellcat?”
“I’m only asking why my company matters. You owe me that.”
“It matters because I need you.”
For a split second, Julia seemed fit to scream. This didn’t appear to be the explanation she wanted. Spot wondered if she was in love with Muggs Tracey. But perhaps the pout on her lips and the fiery hurt in her eyes was a figment of Spot’s imagination. Spot had no way of knowing. In the next instant, she’d spun around and threw open the door, shutting it loudly as she left.
Chapter 7: Amends
Summary:
“I hate this. Okay?” Julia said, a slow grin creeping across her face despite her concern. “I don’t want her to up and leave suddenly when things don’t go as she hoped…I mean, if things don’t go…” She waved her spoon dramatically, and Muggs furrowed his brow. “I know if I had to leave you for a long time, or maybe forever, I—" Julia took a choked breath, shaking her head. “I couldn’t do it, Matthew. And I am so sorry if I ever made you feel like I don’t appreciate you because I do—” She trailed off again, peering even more carefully at Muggs. “How did you get that bruised nose and split lip? Was it from another woman?”
“Try Conlon.”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
February 1902
Brooklyn, NY
A fight had broken out before the Slaughterhouse Point bar, as was customary every other night. Numerous explosions took place at once.
Spot’s vision blurred as he was pushed roughly out of the way into the wilting doorway of Peak’s Dry Goods. The street quickly resembled a John Trumbull painting, with repressed anger overflowing into the cracking of clubs from all around. From beside Spot, a dozen or so Brooklyn rabbits rushed ahead, and Spot bowled toward the Slaughterhouse Point bar and the impenetrable of the distress discerning, Finally.
A scrap. And one he’d been spoiling for since the cartoonish firework display of foolhardy hubris Muggs Tracey demonstrated at Lucifer’s Oyster Saloon, dammit.
Not accustomed to fighting with a brickbat, Spot saw the weapon fly toward him, aiming to knock him out in one swing. It should’ve, too. But he dodged, and it landed in the dirt, scattering mud everywhere. Spinning as carefully as he could in heel-level filth, Spot grabbed the discarded brickbat and careened it down on the intoxicated cove’s wrist, breaking a bone by the sound of it. He yelped, retreating, impotent without armament to hide behind.
So, Spot jumped into another fray, as fierce as the previous one.
Sap gloves and brass knuckles pummeled from everywhere, a solitary gun shot off right before the dupe’s collar collided with a club, and Spot prayed, Don’t let this be the end. Not yet. That evening, Spot never felt so clear-headed, sensed the measliest snuffle of scoundrels near him, and turned to shove a weighty brickbat into their abdomens. Several fled once wounded. Spot paid no attention. That was hunky-dory. He didn’t want to be vindictive, to blow off steam and aggression in the anarchic burrow of hounds he’d stumbled into by fate, or so he told himself as he knocked the wind out of a ghoulish brute in the chest, causing him to sprawl into a pig’s trough.
The fight had progressed to all-out combat—glass shattering, soldiers lying flat in the sludge, shrieks interlaced into a loud tumult of noise. It was a boiling, roaring rumble between gang-affiliated toughs, Brooklyn crooks, and the police, who were made up of both sorts. Spot was caught somewhere in the middle.
Then, the sky turned darker.
Spot was suddenly at the entrance of the Slaughterhouse Point bar, sweating like a horse. He didn’t know how he’d gotten there. He reckoned it was half an hour later because the air was more relaxed, and the sun had set, leaving him in excruciatingly shrill darkness. Men were still at each other’s throats. But several had been knocked out or detained and escorted into police wagons.
Hiss.
It was one of Colm Tracey’s thugs. Spot remembered his brandy-tart breath and his apish arms. The man was made for grinding bones.
Spot faltered away.
That hissing sound had been a blade, not a club. And it had carved an extended cut down his bicep. The slice looked thin but about twenty-five centimeters in length.
Muggs stepped out on the bar’s porch, tracing tongue over teeth like an Italian sightseer. Wholly savage and utterly recognizable to Spot. He surveyed the carnage.
“Say, if it ain’t Jab Johnson,” he said pleasantly. Muggs’ shirt was tussled, but other than that, he seemed uninjured. “Is my friend here kickin’ your ass, or is it you who’s got him on the ropes?”
“He couldn’t lick me if he tried,” the rogue scoffed. “Look at him now.”
“I’ll bet he’s thinking of all the ways to cut your sternum to groin. A general’s mind for bloodshed is Conlon.”
Despite the cut along his arm, the blood did little to hinder Spot. The sorry cur was so preoccupied with Muggs that when Spot lunged for him again, he was taken aback, getting a hard punch to his ribs. The switchblade in his hand soared into a smoke-filled corner of the bar.
But Spot hadn’t quite debilitated him. Choosing his battles, the rogue had his enormous heavy arms around Muggs’ neck quicker than either young man could process. And that had been the wrong battle to choose indeed.
Spot rendered him unconscious with the brickbat. Then the former Brooklyn newsie collapsed, gazing at gloomy, dog-tired ceiling beams. Exhausted, blood-spattered, dizzy, and with his stomach on a spin-cycle. An antique oak stairway ascended over him. He could hear a cat whine and weak shouts from the street.
Muggs got to his feet, strangled but really and most sincerely still breathing.
“Jab never trusted any doctors,” Spot could hear Muggs hoarsely mumble as he hurled the comatose bloke off the porch. “Sleeping on Water Street will help him decide whether he should put himself in situations where he’d need one.”
“Ain’t your pa gonna be soar we soaked one of his men?” Spot asked Muggs from the floor. “Shouldn’t we throw him in the river or something?”
“Just when I think you still ain’t that same half-baked twelve-year-old,” Muggs huffed. “Look, if you wanna lob a fellow into the Hudson, do it on your terms. I ain’t gettin’ electrocuted over it.”
“Nothing like a brawl to commemorate a birthday,” Spot said to the ground.
“I’ve spent it worse ways.”
Spot propped himself up on his forearms, feeling the muscles in his abdomen contract painfully.
“You’re in love with Julia Hawthorne, ain’t you.”
There was no doubt in Spot’s tone. Muggs, who’d examined his neck in the reflection of the bar’s window against the streetlight's glow, deciding it wasn’t any more bruised than usual, offered his left hand out to haul Spot up. The younger man allowed it.
Muggs dragged his lower lip under his teeth, staring at Spot like he was trying to read his thoughts. “I’ve bedded her. You already knew that. Why are you asking?”
Spot’s silence only made Muggs shift from his reflection to face him. Spot didn’t just mean regularly sleeping with. Spot meant exclusively. Spot knew Muggs loved her without having to ask.
“Beautiful gal, ain’t she, and she doesn’t even see it,” Muggs coughed. “That’s what makes her so flash if you ask me.”
He kept dodging it, which made Spot want to throttle him. “You’re in love with Julia,” he said again.
“Well, you’re in love with Kate, ain’t you? You’ve been pining after her for months, right? What’s the big deal? What makes me so special? If she says so, every native-born son of liberty has been in Julia Hawthorne’s bed. I am a drug peddler with a few stories to amuse her, enough to compensate for my lack of vocabulary about dead poets and Italian operas. For God’s sake, Conlon, what the hell is your problem? A hot-blooded girl like her is allowed some pleasure without someone saying they love her. I’ve got no education, I live in a death trap, but I’ve been told I’m a damn good lay. My body’s all I can offer since I don’t have a soul. So, no—I’m not in love with Julia. I’m fuckin’ her til she finds someone of means to marry.”
Spot couldn’t explain it, but he felt real hatred through his veins. All he could see was Julia’s face that morning when Muggs had announced to Spot that he didn’t love her. It reminded him of the look Kate had worn when he’d laughed in her face after she’d confessed something of the same. And so, he lunged at Muggs.
He wanted to watch Muggs’ skin bruise, to draw out a genuine wounded cry from the bastard. Muggs’ first reaction was to cringe, winding with lithe agility out of the way. Spot’s knuckles caught his nose anyway, with a crack like a firework, and Spot craved more of the same. He wanted Muggs to feel what it was like. To feel that kind of hurt. Be knocked down to Julia’s point of vulnerability or otherwise dragged up by her kindness.
“Jesus Christ, Conlon! Have you lost your mind? Why does it matter if I bed her without a ring? She sure as all hell don’t love—”
Muggs caught his breath as Spot grimaced and banged his forehead against the stripping wood of the doorframe before Muggs could do it for him. Spot could feel Muggs’ fingers on his throat trembling, considerate.
“Do you know something I don’t? Did she talk to you…or Kate. About us,” he furthered quietly. “Does she think of me…in that way?”
“Keep talking, and maybe you’ll stumble onto something intelligent.”
A stillness like a deep sleep.
“Spot, I screwed up,” he said. It was an odd sentence to hear from a fellow restraining Spot to the wall by the throat. “People have always liked you more than they do me, and now I see why.”
If Muggs had ever said sorry to Spot before, he couldn’t recall when or why. The hand clutching Spot’s wrist in a locked grasp relaxed.
“Are you still going to pierce my guts if I pull back?”
“It’s bloody likely.”
Muggs let him go, and Spot shifted to glare at him. A fair trickle of blood seeped from the gash Spot had inflicted by Muggs’ nose. Spot wanted to do worse to him, but by some strange miracle, he couldn’t once he noticed the older boy’s face. Muggs seemed slightly ashamed.
“Hell, Conlon, you’ve reason to wail me, for Julia’s sake if not your own,” he said with the loneliest smirk Spot had ever known. “You can have a go at me. I won’t stop you, and we’ll call it even. I terrorized you long before you ever turned a moll’s skirt green, after all.”
Spot couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the mention of their tumultuous past. “Blowing burny is not as bad as throwing your life away to break a girl’s heart, you spineless sot.”
Muggs froze. “You’ve got me buffaloed one too many times today, Conlon, I admit it. Why’s my doing cocaine so bad?”
Spot gave him a double glance. “Stop acting dumb.”
“Saints preserve us, Conlon, I ain’t actin’ dumb. Why’s it so bad?”
“Because if the CAS found out you were doing cocaine in the lodging house, Mary would’ve been held responsible,” Spot growled at the older boy as he towered overhead. Spot’s nails dug ferociously into his palms. “That winter in ’94. When the agent came by for an evaluation, you knew they were going to force her out because she’d forgotten a few things—only a few things—so you brought cocaine into her lodging house practically the next day. She could’ve been fired, but thank God for your poor timing.”
Muggs’ jade eyes tapered into wild-runaway train wheels, emotions flaming harshly in them. “You’ve always looked down at me, but I don’t think it was for the cocaine. You’d get over that in a minute. It isn’t like Kate doesn’t smoke opium. You’re willing to overlook that pretty quick.”
“You put cocaine before everyone else, and you chose to do it in the first place,” Spot threw at him. “What could be a better reason for me to look down on you, exactly?”
Muggs began snickering.
“This isn’t a joke,” Spot said, almost spitting the words like poison. “Are you laughing right now?”
It wasn’t familiar to Spot. Nothing like his usual amused, scowl-inducing laughter. But it also wasn’t of the remorseful, guttural brand. This kind of chuckle delivered a cut through Spot’s chest. Spot knew Muggs could cackle at a wake, but this made dark humor seem like the most innocent of jokes. It made Spot feel like he was witnessing a guillotine come down, and he became so unnerved for a second that he reached out and grasped Muggs’ wrists. Muggs was grimacing—as he usually did when he laughed— but he let those intrusive thoughts be voiced aloud for once.
“It ain’t a joke. Hell, it ain’t even something to smile at.”
“Muggs,” Spot said. Again, “Quit it, Muggs.” But the older boy couldn’t help himself.
“Let me get this right,” Muggs rasped. “You’ve been disgusted with me all this time—”
“Yeah, because not even a day after the CAS did an investigation of Mary’s competence, you started doing cocaine in the upstairs washroom until she had to turn you out lest one the kids find your stash. That’s correct. Muggs. Matthew.”
It was the first time Spot felt ten feet taller than Muggs. The older boy almost sank against the wall, black hair drooping from its part and into his eyes as he smirked like a madman on his way to the asylum.
“Well, ain’t that the devil. How about it? Mind if I confess something to you, Spot, a real reverie of truth for old time’s sake? Huh? It seems you’re dying to know what I figured you hated me for. God damn, I can’t breathe.”
“Muggs,” Spot said. His words reverberated entirely around him, and he scolded himself uselessly. Act unbothered like him.
Muggs remained slumped and lifted his chin to look Spot in the eye, ruby red blood still trickling from his nose and down his lips, and he rose back to his feet along the wall. “The cocaine. The first time I got it. The time Mary was close to losing her job and us our home.”
“Yeah,” Spot said.
“I got it for her,” Muggs said.
Nothing made sense. Spot was no longer looking at twenty-two-year-old Muggs on the darkened porch of the Slaughterhouse Point bar. He was looking at fifteen-year-old Muggs on the fire escape of the lodging house, smoking a cigarette and watching the CAS carriage pull up in front of the steps. He wore a resigned expression. A look Spot had never seen on his face before. Muggs had one in his repertoire, but one he’d never dare allow Spot privy to.
“Mary was a right bitch of a woman about a lot of things I did—or tried to do—but she was something of a mother to you, so,” Muggs began after a beat, “I couldn’t see her go.” He chewed on his bloody lip, not bothering to wipe his mouth. “I recognized the aid society agent from the fuckin’ island, Spot, and I knew what he liked, and I figured I could make one more deal if it meant…I had him follow me to the third-floor washroom—you remember, the one that locked—because no one would see, and I could vomit afterward…but then he wanted a second go, so I told him I’d need something more for it besides letting my landlady stay and…I was fifteen, Spot, and I thought you’d found out. Because you did see me after he’d left, leaning over the sink, drinking river water from that damn-rusted faucet, and splashing water in my face like a maniac, and I must’ve been. Okay? You lingered on that stupid staircase and saw him leave. Right? I could’ve sworn, all these years…you looked furious, frozen when I caught your reflection in the mirror. And then I realized you’d seen the open tin of cocaine I’d gotten, some of it still on my nose because I didn’t properly know how to huff it back then. By the time I shoved you down the stairs. We screamed at each other. Come on, don’t tell me you forgot. The agent was gone, Mary was to stay on, and the fellas were celebrating, but we fought. It couldn’t be helped. The cocaine was payment to me, not punishment for Mary.”
As soon as Muggs quieted, he raked a skeletal hand through his tousled hair and tore his eyes away from Spot’s. A shout echoed in a nearby alley, trailed by a hoot and the cheerful shattering of a bottle. Spot tried to think of something to say. But it was like he’d forgotten how to string together a coherent thought, and his heart had suddenly been catapulted to his liver.
His eyes followed Muggs’ fingers as he pulled a spider off Spot’s lapel and flung it to the ether. “Kate’s lucky to have a fellow like you. You’re what a gentleman ought to be, always have been. I could tell. For the record, I was never glad I got the taste for cocaine, but I was glad of getting kicked out of the house just the same. Any longer there, and I would’ve brought you down with me, one way or another.” And then, in another breath, as if Muggs hadn’t said anything, he added, “I should find Lex and let you get back to your arsonist of a moll. We don’t gotta talk about this ever again. Go home, get drunk, and tomorrow, move on.”
Spot’s throat had tightened. With a strangled voice, he managed a soft, “Moving on ain’t my specialty.”
“Good night, Conlon.”
Muggs stepped off the porch, wiping the blood off his nose with the end of his shirt, right down the street. Every fiber of Spot’s being screamed to go after him, including those still angry, including the ones Muggs had just sent into a panic like a huff of cocaine.
But his legs had turned to rubber, and it was like he was moving in molasses. Once Spot had regained his motion, dashing off the porch with one call of the older boy’s name, he was gone. Suddenly, it was like Muggs Tracey never existed at all.
He’d broken into her ken around nine, knowing she’d be tending bar until midnight. The fire escape window allowed access to Julia’s bedroom, and there were nights when she’d forget to lock it after opening it for ventilation. Muggs had memorized her routes, habits, and schedule like a copper trailing a well-known sneak thief. In passing, he wondered if she had done the same for him. Then there really would be no surprises between them.
Krause suggested buying her flowers when he’d learned of Muggs’ snub of Jules that evening before all hell broke loose at the bar. Of course, he’d learned it from Spot, as Grim was the last person Muggs would turn to for advice. He got it anyway. And use genuine compliments, Muggs. About her mind. No more of this ‘tits up to heaven’ rhetoric. It’s tired.
Lion Valentino, who’d been on the other side of Muggs, couldn’t help but throw his oar in, too. No, Grim, what are you stupid? Please don’t listen to him, Muggs. And when Grim had asked Lion for a better suggestion—to which Muggs was desperately all ears—Lion had finished his shot and said as if it were apparent that the best way to tell a moll you’re sorry is to get your head under her skirts.
Spot had been the only one to make a grade-A effort, telling Muggs he should try apologizing for something he was good at.
“Fucking?”
Spot choked down the whiskey from his pint, and Lion had to slap him on the back to ensure he didn’t drown in it. “Cooking,” Spot had managed hoarsely. “God, spare me.”
Hours later, amidst a stove mess of chopped garlic, carrot peels, and dirty skillets, Muggs set the hot dish of beef goulash on the table, not minding how it burned his palms. The smell reminded him of childhood, long before Mary and the Brooklyn lodging house. He thought of his mother.
r, from when he was nine and how she’d prepare the same beef goulash around Christmastime. It almost made him want to throw the whole thing out the window, watching the pot smash on the pavement below.
But it was one of Julia’s favorite meals. And he couldn’t sabotage her kitchenware and their relationship, whatever that meant.
He was damned if my ma and Jules have the same taste, he thought, running his tongue along his teeth. Christ, this is penance.
He’d only just ladled out portions into two bowls—giving Julia the more giant helping—when he heard a click in the lock and a bolt snap. The front door creaked open, and Julia stumbled in, two large carpet bags of laundry in each hand and her bonnet held between her teeth. It dropped out of her mouth when she saw him standing in her disarrayed kitchen as though she’d come face to face with the risen Lazarus himself.
She stiffened and ducked her head, setting the bags down by the door and kicking it closed behind her. “Is there anything broken, or do you have a key I don’t know about?” was all she asked, her voice strangely calm for Muggs’ liking. She sounded cold but not cruel. “Well, which is it?”
“The window,” Muggs replied. “In your room. It ain’t—it’s not broken.”
She nodded to herself, as if she might’ve already assumed, and flicked her curious eyes to the table, which was cleaner than the small prep counter, and scanned the two bowls and haphazardly placed spoons and glasses. “What’s all this then?”
Before Muggs could answer—which he now seemed apprehensive to do so—Julia sighed in a way that should’ve blacked out the whole city. “Dinner is not an apology, Matthew. Though your culinary effort appears commendable.” She nodded to the delicious-smelling contents in the pot on the stove, offering a soft “Bravo.”
Muggs nodded slightly, amused at Julia’s attempt to draw him out. “Would you like to sit down?”
“You’re inviting me to sit at my table?”
“Please.”
Wearing a distracted expression, Julia dug around in her laundry. She produced a bottle of vodka, attempting to hide her smirk at Muggs’ subtle glimmer of interest, knowing he preferred the beverage to most else. She approached the table and gingerly pulled off the cap, pouring an equal amount into the two glasses.
“How’s your birthday been so far?” She asked flatly, not wanting to address that morning’s altercation so soon.
Muggs shook himself from his reverie, entirely caught off guard by the fact that she’d known. He couldn’t recall mentioning it to her. “It was…fine.”
“Well, it’s not over yet, is it?”
“It’s tomorrow already.”
“Why is your lip cut?”
“I kissed the wrong girl.”
Julia rolled her eyes as she stood before the open cupboard, pulling out a loaf of day-old bread and butter and staring dumbly into the mostly empty shelves. “Why did I come over here?” she muttered to herself.
Muggs held out held out the bottle of vodka.
“Oh.” She took it with an embarrassed grin and placed it up high, reaching on her tippy toes.
“Are you alright?” Muggs asked.
“No,” Julia replied with another troubled sigh, closing the cupboard cabinets, still clutching the vodka bottle. “Katherine likes Thomas Conlon.”
Muggs raised his eyebrows.
“It’s not as scary as a bare-knuckle boxing match,” she continued, looking at Muggs, “but it still makes me nervous.”
“You think Conlon ain’t good enough?”
“No. He’s…fine.” Julia bit the inside of her cheek, shrugging half-heartedly. “Katherine needs what Spot can give her.”
“Yeah? What gave you that twisted notion?”
Julia rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“She’s barely seventeen,” Julia said finally. “And she’s never been outside of New York. She doesn’t know what her choices are, and now she’s smitten with a tomcat, and I don’t want her to be of service to him.”
“You know, my folks got married young,” Muggs mused aloud, pushing off the counter and joining Julia by the table. “Dad put a roof over Ma’s head, made her speak English, and they lasted seven years together before splittin’. But Conlon and Moore… are two different. There’s somethin’ there, somethin’ sick and…wonderful. Shit, it could be love.”
“Shit, it could be love,” Julia echoed dryly, looking at him in disbelief at his own words. Muggs’ eyes widened at the sound of the word ‘shit’ escaping Julia’s lips. “Because you know all about that, right?” She asked in the mock affirmative. “Oh, wait a minute. No. You don’t.”
“Alright.” Muggs breathed. “I knew that if Conlon asked if we were in love, you would’ve said he was wholesale insane, so I—”
“You have no idea what I would’ve said.” Julia looked away with a pained expression and then sat at the table.
Muggs watched her movements, giving a bewildered shrug. Taking a low exhale, he nudged the bowl toward her, followed by the clink of the sliding spoon. “Well, here’s a delicious peace offering nonetheless.” He nodded. “This is your favorite middle-of-the-winter-night snack: beef goulash with only a dash of garlic.”
She stared from the bowl at him.
He sighed. “I know you’re mad. I spoke for you this morning. And that I broke into your house now to apologize for it,” he added. “But I also understand that you might need more time to mull it all over later. Still—”
“If I may,” Julia interrupted with a raised hand to stop him. “You’re doing well right now. But resist the urge to get the last word in.”
Muggs gave her an understanding nod. Julia picked up her spoon.
“Still, I’m ready, even eager, to move forward whenever you are,” Muggs added.
Julia tasted a spoonful of the goulash and grinned. “Thank you.”
He smiled at her while she continued eating the goulash, humming a waltz to herself.
“Are you going to hum while you chew?” he asked.
“Yes,” Julia replied. “But only as long as it bothers you.”
“Ah. Got it. Are you sure you’re okay?” Muggs swallowed his first mouthful of goulash, trying to gather the courage to say what he should have already. The sight of the food suddenly made him sick to his stomach. He set his spoon down and willed himself not to take another bite. If Julia’s eyes weren’t on him, he’d have quickly downed the glass of vodka. Instead, he sliced off a piece of bread and continued breaking it into pieces on his plate as if to feed pigeons.
Julia watched his throat as he swallowed tightly, which made him more self-conscious. Her lips tightened, but she didn’t coax him into eating more, not even when she offered him a pad of butter, and he let it sit untouched. “I just wish Spot lived in Manhattan. Because if Spot lived in Manhattan, I think his relationship with Katherine would’ve run its course in a few months.”
Was that really how she felt? If Julia felt that way about Spot and Katherine, who was Muggs to try his luck with her?
“How do you know that?”
“Katherine is so smart,” Julia said, her voice laced with worry. “She’s the smartest one of all my friends. She would have thrived in college or journalism. She’s an amazing writer. They got her, Matthew. The soul-eaters, they got her.”
“You told me no one’s ever meeting your parents or hers. And now I understand why they’re cannibals.”
“No. No. They’re most assuredly human. My mother made a drink for my father every night. I don’t think he even knew his way around the kitchen, and that’s saying something coming from me.”
“What, like where the ice box is?”
“No, like how to operate the…stove. I don’t know. It’s frustrating. And when I was a girl, he’d walk into my bedroom and step over my clothes. I have never—and I will never—see my mother stop and step over my clothes. No. She picked them up every time.”
Muggs raised his head from the bowl, trying to slow the rapid thud of his pulse. Why had he been huffing cocaine while cooking? “Maybe your dad figured he worked all day. He did his job, and she’s a mother. That’s her job.”
“But she didn’t know she had the choice to do anything else.”
“But you do. Moore does, too. And she’s choosing to stay with Conlon. Don’t mean she’s cookin’ and cleanin’ for him.”
“I hate this. Okay?” Julia said, a slow grin creeping across her face despite her concern. “I don’t want her to up and leave suddenly when things don’t go as she hoped…I mean, if things don’t go…” She waved her spoon dramatically, and Muggs furrowed his brow. “I know if I had to leave you for a long time, or maybe forever, I—" Julia took a choked breath, shaking her head. “I couldn’t do it, Matthew. And I am so sorry if I ever made you feel like I don’t appreciate you because I do—” She trailed off again, peering even more carefully at Muggs. “How did you get that bruised nose and split lip? Was it from another woman?”
“Try Conlon.”
“And I was hoping you could talk to him,” Julia said in a subdued voice, avoiding Muggs’ gaze. “He’ll listen to you. Tell him Katherine is only going to break his heart.”
Muggs, his face paling, looked down and shook his head.
“What?”
“I don’t…” Muggs trailed off. “God.”
“What?” Julia’s expression sobered.
Muggs grinned ruefully. “What you said just now, how you’re worried about Moore being a servant to Conlon once they get involved—”
“No. I said, being of service.”
“You told me you should be with someone because you want to be a team, and then, I don’t know, you'll figure the rest out together.” He looked at her for a long moment, then slowly reached out to fix a straying strand of her hair. “And no one competes. You want Moore to be happy but afraid of letting her be with Conlon. Damn, Julia, you drain all the fuckin’ fun out of it for her. And then Conlon’s to blame or, because that sounds like a good deal, he’s a fool.”
“I didn’t say he was a fool.”
“It’s just—” Muggs stopped himself and tried again. “It ain’t supposed to be this complicated. You’re too complicated for me, Julia.”
Julia searched his eyes, but all she saw were confusion and anger that matched her own. “Right. And you’re not up for the challenge because everything has come easy for you.”
“I’m not going to keep trying to convince you I’m a good enough guy or that Conlon’s a good enough guy for Moore. Fuck it, you know what? This isn’t even about them. It’s about you and me and how I’ll never deserve you, Julia.” Muggs noticed the lone tear that ran down Julia’s cheek, and he threw his spoon onto his plate, sitting back in his chair with a sigh. “I should go. This was a mistake.”
Julia pursed her lips, watching him stand and make for his coat on the sofa. “You cannot run away every time you feel uncomfortable. It’s cowardly. I can tell something’s bothering you.” She crossed the kitchen toward him, forthright as always.
“Can’t I?”
She shook her head, standing before the door as if her petite frame could stop him from leaving by force. When she stood before him, he held his cap, a low wall of defense until he could figure out how to formulate the right words. But she spoke first. “You’re loved, Matthew Tracey, don’t you know that?” She asked quietly, but with so much conviction her lip trembled, and her eyes shone with tears. Anxiety had slipped into her question. She lifted her eyes to meet his, and the sadness there ripped at Muggs’ heart. “And I think you’ve needed to hear that for your whole life. You aren’t cruel. You aren’t stupid. And you certainly aren’t your father.”
He towered over her then, eyes ablaze with something Julia had never seen before. It made her legs shake. She felt one of his hands grip hers tightly, and she thought he’d pull her out of the way, but instead, he held her there, obstructing his path. As her gaze met Muggs’ cold green eyes, she could tell her words had shaken the very foundation he walked upon. How often had those eyes instilled fear in others? Recognizing weakness was probably second nature to him. His face remained a passive mask, but Julia saw the cracks—she always did.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said softly, looking from his hand clasped tightly on her wrist up to his chest. “I…dammit, Matthew. I love you.”
Water pressed against Julia’s eyes, but she forced them back. If she hadn’t said those words, she would’ve suffocated to death. And even if he weren’t brave enough to bare his soul, she would be. She wouldn’t cry, but his words from earlier slammed into her mind. I’m not the one in love. But she couldn’t help it. Hot tears fell out of her eyes, but the pain in her heart couldn’t let up. It grew stronger and stronger until she couldn’t hold back anymore, and an inhaled cry escaped her chest. Pull yourself together, she scolded herself. And she tried to stand as firm as Muggs, but another dismayed cry crept from her mouth.
“I made you cry,” came Muggs’ voice as he stared at her. He didn’t sound angry. Instead, his voice was tired and choked and almost sheepish. Of course, he hadn’t heard what she’d just confessed. Hearing what you wanted and ignoring what you didn’t was a practicality for someone who'd lived a life as he had.
Julia used her free hand to bury her face, but the tears were unstoppable by now, and there was no turning back.
“I can’t see how my leaving would upset you so. Maybe I should stay to give you a real reason to cry.” He’d dropped her wrist by now, trying to employ what might’ve passed for humor in a grossly inappropriate moment. He touched her arm, and Julia shuddered so aggressively that she would’ve tripped over her own feet if Muggs hadn’t pulled her toward him.
“Easy, Jules,” he said in a low voice.
Such a voice. Julia relaxed and let him walk her back to the sofa. Slowly, she sat down beside him and curled her legs beneath her skirt, remaining as motionless as a statue – in shock at what she’d just told him. Her first reaction was panic, and she leaned away from Muggs. She wanted to escape, to hide as he’d wanted to a minute ago. She had no plan to declare her feelings this way, certainly not this soon. Suddenly, she was faced with a surge of doubt.
“Look at me,” he urged, and she did. It wasn’t the voice that made him notorious. It was softer, maybe even a little defeated. “Please don’t cry. And don’t flinch when I touch you.”
Julia nodded dazedly. She licked her lips, tasting the saltiness of tears on them. He took her hand and pressed her palm against the tattoo she knew was over his heart. Julia breathed out as his muscles flexed under her touch. He was warm beneath his shirt, the skin much softer than she’d remembered.
He tilted his head. “I swear on my life, I’ll never hurt you in any way.” His lips quirked, and he nodded to her. “I promise, I’d sooner bleed for you than make you cry. My word is my bond.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Me too.” He released her hand, and she lowered it to her lap, stunned and confused. Muggs never made promises.
“Were you just saying that, then? Do you love me, Julia?”
Julia closed her eyes against his piercing stare. She could lie, but that would not win her his trust. And she needed that more than anything else if they were to be happy.
“Yes, I love you.” She murmured the exact words she had choked out earlier.
There, it was said, and now she felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She opened her eyes and found he was smiling fondly at her. She breathed easily from this.
“Are you certain, Julia?”
“Are you going to talk me out of it? Don’t tell me how to feel, Matthew. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Then you don’t want me to leave?”
His question caught her slightly off guard, but she answered willingly, “I couldn’t get rid of you if I tried.”
“That’s flash,” he whispered, staring like he was trying to memorize every detail of her face.
She stared at him, hopefully, her lovely blue eyes wide and alive. Quiet momentarily, she finally said, “What are you thinking?”
Muggs didn’t know what to say, mainly because his longing to have her all to himself was selfish. He started to search for his cocaine tin in his pocket, but Julia stopped his hand. With her eyes fixed on his, Julia pried his fingers from the tin and set it on the end table.
“Matthew.” She clutched his upper arms. “Say something. Please. If you don’t feel the same, I can manage that. But I need you to say it.”
Her touch sent warmth undulating down his forearms to his fingers. Before he could restrain himself, he reached for her. As he encircled her waist, her eyes glistened. “You’re right. You deserve the truth.”
She angled her head just slightly in that understanding way of hers.
Muggs wasn’t an articulate man. He didn’t always know how to put his emotions into speech. But this time, he didn’t mind. He didn’t stop himself. “I don’t want to give you up. I want you to stay with me and be my girl.” He glided one hand around to the small of her back and pulled her closer.
When she rested against him eagerly and traveled her hands up his biceps to his collar, his courage found life. She browsed her fingers back down as though savoring the feel of his arms. “I’m already your girl.”
“Yeah, but I want to make it real. No more lies, no more sneaking around real.”
“Do you mean it?” Her eyes were full of curiosity.
He considered the sincerity that illuminated her face. “Only if you mean it, too. I feel sick at pretending I don’t love you.”
“Then don’t.” She smiled a leisurely, sensual smile.
He stroked the length of her spine up to the nape of her neck. With her mane pulled into a sophisticated updo, her neck was free, soft, and stunning. He let his hands wander to the stretch that ran from her cheek to her clavicle.
An easy, gratifying sigh fled from her lips. Her hands slithered up his biceps again, snaking around his collar and mooring in his hair, where she sunk her fingers deep. She shook him from his daze by moving her lips to where his jawbone and neck met. It was his turn to moan.
With her hands tangled in his hair, she seized him with kisses along his chin and throat.
He lowered his lips to her ear and mumbled, “I love you. I’m only sorry for not saying it before and for pushing you away.”
Muggs could feel her mouth arc into a grin. She kissed his jaw again and melted away all intelligible thoughts except one. He wanted—no, needed—her.
He lowered his head to find her lips. “Kiss me, Jules,” he rasped.
Julia’s giggle was alluring, and her kisses moved to his neck, where the top few buttons had worn off. Her lips brushed the bare place on his chest. He hummed and took her hand, pulling her up with him. He started for her bedroom without breaking his long strides. She began to say something, but he shifted his lips to hers and quieted her with a kiss as she leaned on the threshold. Julia kissed him back readily, fusing and stirring with all the yearning that had blossomed between them. When she shoved Muggs through the doorway, he broke away momentarily.
“You tell me if you want to stop—”
She silenced him with a kiss this time, already kicking the door behind her. She climbed into his lap after he sprawled back on her bed, making the mattress squeak beneath them. “I will,” she said, breathless, her hair undone and cascading over her shoulders, sweeping his face. “And you do the same.”
Chapter 8: Scream
Summary:
“And the night I came back for my nightgown, and you said you saw a rat,” Kate continued, chewing on her lip intermittently. “It’s just…” She grimaced again and shifted her shoulders to pull her knees to her chest, almost defensively. “I’ve known you most of your life, Julia. You don’t scream like that at the sight of a rat.”
Julia’s face turned a crimson shade in the faint candlelight. “Scream like what?”
Kate raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. “Do you want me to reenact it?”
“No,” Julia and Muggs said harmoniously.
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
July 1894
Brooklyn, NY
It’s an empowering sensation to be anti-something. Those who are against alcohol share the same titillation as those against women’s suffrage, Kate Moore thought. It’s peachy as all get out to rage against poverty, sex, corruption, or immorality. It was like a game with two opposing teams, Riggs once said. “Us” versus “them.” One side was the anonymous iron fist, like a symphony conductor with a pistol instead of a baton, sending a militia to intimidate and terminate, keeping the status quo sporadically. The other side first sought to shape and strengthen change and subvert the anonymous iron. That side was the underground—the partisans—who stole from the cheats and took out the rabid beasts.
That was flash.
Since she was no more than eight years old and sleeping in her family’s back storeroom—or the small space between the back doorway and the alley—random acts of rebellion were prized gemstones in Kate’s mind, and nothing delighted her more than annoying the barkeeper of the Cork and Bottle pub. He was a tall, burly Irishman who reminded Kate of a gnarled oak tree and was known as Danny Driscoll.
“Take her the devil out of here!” he barked at Julia once, directing a quivering bony finger at ten-year-old Kate. “Take that horrible little mouse of yours out of my pub before anyone sees her, or I’ll start charging you double for pints!”
Sixteen-year-old Natalie Bray lay her head on the maple bar, holding a glass of bitter lemonade with well-mannered daydreaming. She sat up and fixed the corset she wore beneath an unbuttoned chemise that made her resemble a soft butterfly flying around. She is still in good humor and hopeful about her future, even though some would’ve found her circumstances monstrous.
Kate did. She understood all too well what it meant to be a poor girl in the slums. She enjoyed scaring off men who tried their luck with Natalie or Julia while on the job.
“What could she have possibly broken today, Mr. Driscoll, besides the stick up your ass?” she wondered quietly.
“Stupid slut!” he yelled at Natalie. “I had a customer in earlier, and that filthy witch volunteered to bring him a pint, and seconds later, he’s raging to me because the beer I poured had been replaced with piss!”
Julia snickered alongside Kate. “Do I have a blue ribbon to pin on you, my dear? That’s damn brilliant.”
“Don’t fuss at her, Danny. Let her be,” Natalie prattled idly, giving a weak shrug at the matter and staring into her pint thoughtfully. “You’ve already got her doing enough, robbing your clients blind. Besides, Muggs Tracey was going to take the beer without paying. I know him. Serves him right what he got.”
Driscoll only growled curses in response, ducking behind the bar and into the kitchen for one thing or another. Employing Kate as a pickpocket wasn’t an official job, and she only got her free meals now and again.
Kate lingered by the two older girls, cracking open peanut shells and shucking the hollowed, salted skins to the dusty floor as she listened to their calm, continued conversation. She recognized the worried look in Julia’s eyes – one she’d seen many times before, one that sent her stomach into mad somersaults. Natalie’s face was obstructed by a hand on her forehead, and her long blonde hair—slightly darker than Julia’s in the proper lighting— was doing the rest of the shielding. Just glancing from the back at the two young women, a stranger wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. Cunning, stalwart Julia and lovelorn, wingy Natalie were likelier to pass for sisters by appearance alone. But it was Kate who could finish Julia’s sentences, even if she disagreed with what was coming out of her mouth.
“Well, being late means nothing if you’re not eating well,” Julia mumbled beside Natalie’s ear as Kate reclined along the railing. “I read that poor nutrition can cause menstruation to cease.”
Natalie never considered Kate’s chasing off audacious, handsy patrons who tried their luck. Half because the shenanigans entertained her and half because she’d quit her profession years ago. Her new beau had found her decent paid work and a boarding house—so she’d always be clothed and sheltered, and whatever she could offer to Miles Krause’s friends Julia and Kate, she would in a heartbeat.
Besides, Mr. Driscoll’s anger over an innocent lark was brought on by his pride in the Cork and Bottle’s beer—brewed by a German called Dutch Hal. He could brew anything and took odd satisfaction in the job. Hal also liked Kate, constantly slipping her free sarsaparilla and tapping her warmly on the chin.
“What’s this about?” Kate leaned over and asked Julia, catching the reddening in Natalie’s eyes as the tears threatened to spill. “Natalie, why are you crying? Are you hurt?”
Natalie looked away immediately, searching her pockets and inside her corset. She was almost frantic. “Damn, where’s my handkerchief?”
“Everything’s fine, sunshine,” Julia answered Kate with the grimmest tone. “No one’s hurt.”
Kate leaned further over to look past Julia at Natalie as the girl dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her skirt. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” both older girls said at once, trying to smile and finding the task impossible. Kate frowned, feeling that familiar anger bubble inside her chest whenever Julia shielded her from “forbidden” knowledge. It wasn’t like Kate was five years old anymore. Yet Julia still wouldn’t allow her privy to some issues, infuriating Kate.
“Did Grim do something?” Kate asked, a little blunt for Julia’s taste, as evidenced by the sharp look she gave her young friend. “Did he? If he did, Natalie, I’ll fix him for you. I’ll put spiders in his bed or… switch his shoe polish with hot tar.”
Julia’s eyes widened. “Katherine Moore, you will do no wicked such things!’
Natalie hummed a breathy laugh in response, unable to conceal her amusement. “At ease, soldier,” she said to Kate, wiping her eyes once more and sniffling another chuckle at the thought. “No need for drastic measures just yet.”
“Why can’t you tell me? I’m good at keeping secrets, too—"
“I’ve had just about enough of you, lass!” Driscoll reappeared and began laying into Kate where he’d left off. “Lifting my guest’s billfolds is one thing, but childish pranks are quite another!”
“He was a thief, honest,” Kate jeered. Her only decent outfit that wretched scorching afternoon was a hand-me-down dress so loose that Leonora Kina had added one of her son’s old belts to cinch the waist, the cotton clinging to her skin, and Kate already felt as if she’d perspired out the whole East River. “He had no money to pay you with. I saw his billfold. It was empty.”
Natalie quirked a curious eyebrow as the barkeep’s expression darkened like a raincloud.
“Take her away!” Mr. Driscoll yelled. “Now! Patience is a bloody curse!”
Mr. Driscoll referred to Kate as Patience because Natalie sometimes did, and Natalie did because when she’d first met Kate in a hansom cab, she’d told the driver to hurry up and get to the Lower East Side so she could tell her folks she’d been at the Catholic school all day and not playing truant. It was a ludicrous epithet because Kate was so wild—giggling, hollering, running, screaming. Not one to sit still and look pretty. Anyway. The nickname started with affection, as lots of perverse things do. Kate believed lots of misfortune started with affection, but it was hard to keep that in mind when life dragged you to the darkest pits of depravity.
“Easy does it, Mr. Driscoll. No need to—” Julia tried, hovering over her chair.
“Patience squatting here whenever she pleases is enough to throw me into an early grave! Take her the hell away!”
He tossed Kate out of the pub as Julia gaped in shock. Kate glided like an asteroid before gravity kicked in. Her leg hit an old apple barrel, and she almost bowled into a scrappy hound dog tied around a lamppost.
Kate felt wounded. Both physically and emotionally. She sat there, grimacing as scrapes and cuts flourished. A month before, she’d sworn never to be a coward, so she staggered for the pub’s door but discovered it closed and locked.
“Mascalzone!” she fumed.
As Kate faltered to the small hole in the door, squinting one eye to look in, Mr. Driscoll and Julia were engaged in an argument, arms moving wildly like winds on a sail, emphasizing their words with dramatic gestures. The rosiness of Natalie’s apple cheekbones was whitish with fear. Driscoll looked like a sweating draft horse, like horses that could display foaming fury.
Troubled, Kate trailed backward, grazing the door with her hand, feeling tears sting her eyes. She’d stopped being superstitious that year—of any kind. Her parents were naturally superstitious, growing up with the old Irish and Italian customs. They prayed at grottos with crowned statues and made wishes on favorite stars. But Kate couldn’t bring herself to believe in it anymore. Even if she avoided black cats and ladders, dreadful things still came, even if she’d never shattered a mirror.
Kate’s shoulders shook. Perhaps the boy did have money for the pint tucked in a pocket she hadn’t checked, and now she’d robbed Driscoll of business. But had her pickpocketing skills been less than today?
Sunlight burned her head, and Kate went over her choices. She could tread to the pier to see the massive ships with their posts like scattering cedar branches, the short iron boats with their cirriped casings, and the cheerful canoes. Or Kate could snatch grapes from Mr. Salzman’s stand because he was silly enough to position their crate on the curb. She could spy through the antique store windows, drooling at the treasures. A forlorn whine seemed imminent until Kate got a better idea.
She’d meet up with her adoptive older brother Lash, and they could race the length of the Brooklyn Bridge. This time, she was bound to win pretty. She’d be damned if he let her win again for his amusement.
So, Kate made out for Lash Kina with much enthusiasm, taking a detour to purchase a bag of sauerkraut candy from a grocery.
Finding him was another story. Lash wasn’t shooting billiards with his brother in the front room of Maurice’s Hall. And he wasn’t at the fish market near the docks where his father worked for part of the season, but Mr. Kina brushed her ear with his dark, bristly beard and asked Kate to tell his younger son that if he failed to show up for his shift, he’d know what for.
Still, Lash wasn’t feeding the pigeons at the riverside camp Kate treasured so fervently.
Perspiration dripping along her breastbone, Kate eventually found Lash beyond the loud bustle of Sutter Place. Her sworn protector lingered by a hokey-pokey—or oche poco—handcart procuring ice cream from one of the Italian merchants. Kate slid by wagons traveling like unwieldy flatboats, clasped between a mack laden with bricks and mortar and a sun-withered man transporting soil.
“Katherine!” Lash shouted, saying her name without the ‘th’ and adding an ‘a’ sound to the end of her name so it came as ‘Katerina,’ as his mother did. His smile lowered. “God, bambolina, why do you look like you’ve been fighting Jake Kilrain?”
Digging a boot toe into the gravel, Kate rolled her eyes, which was her version of accepting a compliment. Kate felt that familiar indescribable rush of why, are you impressed that she usually experienced in Lash’s presence.
Lash was ten years her senior and thus twenty. He wasn’t notably brighter than the other rogues sparkling out from the sweltering cask of the Brooklyn docks—but he was deeply attentive. He wasn’t notably more challenging but bowed down to no man. He wasn’t conventionally good-looking in the way those Dress and Vanity Fair prints for men’s fashion advertised—. Still, he had an arresting lantern-jawed appearance, a torrent of black hair without the standard severe crop, and unique angled eyes fastening deeply over his prominent nose bridge. And he was viciously spirited. It made no difference if Lash were tossing pieces of old fruit to his armada of birds so he could avoid his mother’s list of chores or breaking a pool cue over the head of a violent drunk in the barroom, howling with delight as his cousins ran for the hills. The very fibers of his being were crafted to a rougher brim.
Kate was just unorthodox, and Lash loved it. He was proud of her outlandish nature even if he never said it in so many words. Proud in the sincerest and firecracker-bellied way.
It was no surprise why Kate didn’t blend in with the other Brooklyn girls: she was a bare-knuckle pugilist long before she’d been nicknamed Patience by some hot-corn hooker. Unlike Lash, Kate is alone, as her mother decides she is more troubled than she is worth. Remove yourself from the premises. And Kate was who she was: part lace-curtain Italian and part shanty Irish, with olive eyes and curly brown hair. Fights didn’t make her cringe. Her parents owed, and she paid. Her mother didn’t have strings of diamonds anymore, but if something struck her fancy, Kate’s father would’ve sold his soul to get it for her. But Leonora was a different kind of mother because she didn’t need a lot to have a whole life—and Kate and Julia followed by example. Red hots, buttered clams, pasty lemon drop cakes, the Bénédictine they’d acquired a taste for. If any cove tried to pick her pocket, Kate brawled like a junkyard dog, wrangling, scratching, punching.
And I am typically succeeding in holding them off.
“I fought Mr. Driscoll,” Kate replied finally after Lash kept asking.
“And how!” he shouted. “You’re a bullfighter, now, are you?”
Kate wavered, wondering if she should tell him about the cove intending to defraud Driscoll. “He didn’t find the beverage I served to a customer very becoming.”
One of Lash’s eyes winced. “So?”
“I replaced a tumbler of beer with horse piss. The boy was a thief anyway. Tracey-something. Big deal.”
Lash rumbled with amusement, and feline features tilted toward seething heavens. “Well, did he get you for that?”
“No, not really. Driscoll just threw me out, and I took off.”
“And are you allowed back, or has he fired you, too?”
“Il diavolo se ne frega,” she replied, partly a lie, as Kate was worried about losing out on free food. “Where are the others?”
“Who, Emilian, Luca, Romero? You’re asking after those true-hearted countrymen?” He asked, rattling off his older brother and two cousins. “They’re for the rat fights at Moretti’s. The very thought turns my stomach, so.” Lash rolled his eyes in a way that rivaled Kate’s. “I’ve got my shift anyway—”
“Come on! Come on, let’s go to the bridge!” Kate cried. “You promised we could have a re-match at the race! Non arrendetevi mai! Mai!”
“But Papa gave me the day off yesterday, so I can’t—”
“He’ll understand. You can work double tomorrow. You promised me for today.”
Mihai Kina was a kind man and an honest worker. He would understand, Kate repeated. And she knew all she had to do was stick out her lower lip and knit her brows in a pitiful pout with a soft please for Lash to cave in and agree to whatever she wished. Sometimes, she felt guilty for how easy it was.
“Non arrendetevi mai! Che si possa morire prima della sconfitta!” Lash finally howled like a warrior, giving her a wink. “Just hope you can keep up this time.”
So they went, sharing bites from Lash’s ice cream, to the Brooklyn entrance of the bridge.
February 1902
Brooklyn, NY
The winters didn’t feel as bitter as Kate remembered from childhood. No, they were manageable. They were welcomed, even.
She’d felt quite at home at the barstool of Julia’s workplace that February evening. Content to nurse a few glasses and keep her friend company during the shift. But that night, Kate couldn’t help but notice how off Julia had been. Re-washing the same clean glasses, staring into space as Kate prattled about this and that, chiming in with minimal words, giving humorless laughs. It suddenly felt like a chore to get a conversation flowing with her oldest friend, and Kate was lulled to sleep by the exhausting effort. She had to stifle a yawn several times.
When her shift ended just before midnight, Julia came around the side of the bar, dousing her cigarette in Kate’s empty whiskey glass. She arched her back in a lazy stretch and then angled her thumb in the general direction of her lodgings. “I’ve got to get my laundry from Mrs. Catalano. Then we can get some sleep.”
Kate fought to keep her eyelids from drooping. “I’m not tired—”
“Well, you’re not drunk after two pints and slurring your words. Come on. Or I’ll drag you to bed myself by your ear. I won’t be happy about it, but I will. We’ll arrange for breakfast in the morning.”
Julia’s words rang true. She knew Kate better than anyone, and Kate was dozing, unable to keep her head up, growing quieter by the minute.
“I’m staying at Spot’s tonight. He’s expecting me,” Kate replied, catching Julia's subtle, wide-eyed look at the glass she was scrubbing for the third time.
“Very well.”
Nodding and with a goodnight, Kate grabbed her coat and made for the hall to exit. But at the last minute, she ducked into a small closet filled with brooms and buckets—too shallow to immerse oneself entirely inside. Kate watched Julia clean the bar with a rag for ten minutes from the shadows. And steal a bottle of vodka from the shelf, furtively putting it in her coat.
When the squeak of Julia’s boots on the floor passed Kate’s hiding place and the bar door scraped open to a bluster of frigid wind, Kate did the only practical thing. She threw on her scarf and coat, pressing the buttons at lightning speed. And she trailed after her.
Long-stride but narrow footprints in the slush, that of a woman wanting to arrive at her target quickly, lit the way for Kate after leaving the bar. A miniature horse-drawn sleigh flew past her, the white Clydesdale’s hooves silenced as toboggan handrails glided atop the heavy ashen snow. Brooklyn was cleaner than the city across the bridge, and abundant electric lights illuminated life upon closed storefronts and frost quartzes melting from roof sidings like drooling tusks. Inaudible passersby hurried along. A baker with a gabardine wool, an Italian laborer dressed in the flannel, slanted cap, and moleskin trousers he’d brought with him off the boat. Kate trailed the track of the prints as catlike as she knew how. Soon, she made it to a familiar extensive juncture, but any hope of following dissipated in the lawless sleet piles bordering the streets.
Luckily, Julia was strikingly distinct in her fashion and wore one of Leonora’s old coats, unlike anything a New York girl would clad. Her long blue coat swooshed gradually along the roadway, and the yellow silk of her pinned-up hair glowed against the contrasting electric lights and ice. Kate trailed Julia to the other side of the street by dodging a duo of healthy rats and a woman sprinkling silver cinders with a trowel.
Kate’s head felt heavy and unstable, as did the rime under her shoes. Julia was headed home. Everything seemed routine, but what could be weighing so heavily on her mind? She passed a peaceful little square, drenched with foliage in the spring and quiet in its frigid autumn rest, where Julia liked to sit when her world got too anxious. The idea of Julia keeping some awful secret hit Kate like a prickly pang, and she wished for nothing more than to shout Julia’s name and make her spill in the street—the feeling called for substantial suppression. But Kate pressed on. Julia didn’t stop at the coffee sellers, the picturesque First Congregationalist Church with the extensive library, nor the men’s college with its ramparts and flushed male scholars whooshing around in long, stylishly tailored frock coats.
Kate slithered behind her, partly stressed over what she might learn.
Julia angled right on South 4th Street, just after the park. Stripped oaks with creepily ice-caked twigs were the only witnesses. The two walked by a few tenements, the sides of the houses mysterious, dried-up weeds swarming the stones. Kate hung back a while to let Julia get farther ahead, leaning against the dark brick. A cat hissed, trying to scare Kate from the alley. The cold smoke in the sky blew densely overhead, a suffocating heaviness that threatened to smash down atop Kate’s head.
Julia pressed through the iron fence. After it had closed, Kate tiptoed along, watching Julia from the other side. A track had been plowed through the blizzard amongst the apartment and the backstreet. Drawing a key from her corset, Julia went up the front steps and inside her building.
It’s none of my business, Kate told herself. You’re not thinking clearly. You’re exhausted. Go to the coffee sellers, buy a cup, mull it over, then to Spot’s. It’s nothing.
But it was her business, she reasoned as she sat at the coffeehouse directly across from Julia’s apartment, staring out the window at the darkened building. Julia was her best friend. If something was troubling her, Kate needed to know about it. Julia made it her duty to know all of Kate’s dealings. So, after half an hour of finishing two cups of a robust Caribbean brew and attempting to read a discarded evening edition of The Eagle, Kate walked through the gate and made for the unlocked front entrance.
Feeling a heavy pit in her stomach, Kate pushed in. She would if she had to wake Julia from her sleep to ensure everything was on the level. But no more secrets. The last time she saw someone in that state, clinging to a secret that hard, it was Natalie Bray. A few weeks later, she was gone.
With a shaky hand, Kate turned the key to Julia’s door but found it strangely unlocked. This only made Kate’s heart quicken its beat. She stood in an unlit parlor and kitchen with scattered pots, pans, and spilled ingredients. Julia’s boots were bolstered gracefully by the door alongside a pair Kate didn’t recognize. They were far too large to be Julia’s. Under Julia’s bedroom door, a hint of kerosine lamp light leaked out, shining on the floor rug.
Kate navigated through the kitchen in the dark, accidentally knocking over a chair and sending it crashing to the floor, breaking the silence. Freezing, Kate put a hand over her mouth and looked at Julia’s bedroom door. She could hear a mattress squeaking to life and feet rustling on the wood floor. She bent down and quickly picked up the chair, setting it upright at the table. I decided the jig was up, and it was best to alert Julia. She was here before her friend had a heart attack. Kate pushed the chair in, no longer worried about being quiet. But before she could cross the room, she saw the bedroom door open and close quickly, leaving Kate in complete darkness again, and a large hand shot out from the abyss, grasping Kate by her hair. She pushed herself away in vain. Her shadowed attacker hauled off and then kicked the side of Kate’s right calf, making her buckle and collapse to the rug below.
Eruptions of colored light floated in front of her eyes. Then she ran a hand over her face, shaking them away.
“Really?” Kate rasped. “That was uncalled for.”
She wasn’t injured, but the dust from Julia’s rug had passed her lips. Rolling prostrate, Kate scowled up at Muggs Tracey with beautiful images of throttling him in revenge, blurring her judgment. Muggs’ frame breathed easy once he realized who it was.
“You’re the one who followed Julia like a lost little cat,” Muggs retorted. “That was uncalled for.”
The two were alone in the dark kitchen. Unnervingly still, Muggs lit a candle. Two bowls, spoons, and empty glasses rested on the table. A coat was draped along the sofa, far too big to be another of Leonora’s hand-me-downs. She surmised it belonged to him. Kate didn’t know why she and Muggs were now glaring like petty-squabbling siblings at one another when there seemed to be several unanswered questions in their midst. Kate shifted her eyes away from Muggs, observing the rest of the flat in the candlelight. Two green wingchairs bordered the hearth, and navy brocade curtains hung in the windows. The place looked to be in order despite the kitchen mess. As usual, the bulky piano next to the curtains was encircled with a quilt. Kate reckoned that Julia hadn’t played it for a couple of years.
“What in the devil are you doing here?” Kate staggered upright.
“You’d make a lousy detective, all right.” Muggs stood with one hand raking through his hair, looking uncomfortable. “Julia thought you were sleepin’ at Conlon’s. Or on Conlon, rather. But instead, you were stalkin’ after her like a bounty hunter. Don’t she have the right to make it home unbothered?”
“Not if you don’t tell me why the hell you’re here at one in the morning, you prowler.”
“Right, because breakin’ into homes in the middle of the night is at the top of my list. You mad little minx.”
“Your list includes beating up whoever The Hall tells you to, selling to pimps, destroying yourself with cocaine, screwing any woman with a pulse, and lying to my face.”
“You ain’t convincin’, Moore. You’re just a scared little girl who needs her mommy,” he gestured to Julia’s closed bedroom door.
“Wow, that’s rich, Tracey. You’re a male chauvinist brat who needs his daddy,” she replied, shoving him slightly. “Ain’t that what all the Tammany bullshit is really about?”
“Oh my God, there it is again. The whinin’,” Muggs huffed out a laugh, folding his arms and bending forward to be at her eye level. “Why don’t you see if your mother still has milk?”
“Why don’t you go suck Boss Tweed’s prick?” Kate shot back at a much louder volume than they had previously used.
“Jesus Christ,” hissed an attractively articulate voice from the bedroom doorway. “I asked him to sleep here. As you know, Katherine, I can’t prepare a meal to save my life. If I can’t burn it, it’s served raw. Muggs was generous enough to cook dinner tonight…and stayed over.”
“Julia,” Kate said, out of breath. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have followed you.” The frown on her lips withered away into an embarrassed, tight line as her muddled brain quickly put the pieces together. It didn’t shock her that Julia had a man cooking for her, but Kate would’ve never guessed it to be Muggs Tracey, of all people. It was simply…disturbing. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right. If this is what you wanted to keep from me, I’ll admit I’m confused.”
“Cheers,” Julia said to the floor, baffled.
She seemed surprised by Kate’s even-tempered reaction to Muggs’ being there. At one in the morning. In only his trousers. With Julia’s perfume on every free inch of his skin. Indeed, some women might not take as kindly to a strange fellow in their only sister’s bedroom. Kate, however, had decided that was a losing battle years ago. But a cut-throat, lowlife Russian-speaking Irish scoundrel like Tracey begged the question. At that moment, Muggs’ pension for cocaine and corrupt dealings became the less offending aspect of his character.
Julia looked like the exact opposite of everything Muggs encapsulated. She was an uptown girl by birth. Porcelain-looking and eloquent vernacular passed down strictly from the First Families. Often mischievous behind the façade. Mischief is the lingua franca between the two girls. Julia might scold Kate for one moment, but then she’d give her an easy grin to show that everything was forgiven. Kate used to wish she could read Julia’s mind. She decided, gathering from the small lines that flanked her sad, azure eyes. Julia left many of her thoughts unspoken. That night, Julia was clad in her lacy Point de Paris drawers, a white whalebone corset thrown on quickly and left entirely uncinched. A yellow robe of Japanese decorative satin was wrapped around her, untied but held together by Julia’s crossed arms, keeping her breasts from slipping over the corset. Julia’s light, glossy tresses were unkempt, and sweaty strands stuck to her neck and forehead. Her delicate features, matching the Gibson girls’ illustrations, looked flushed, like her pink lips had been bitten pulp and swollen, and her eyes glassed with tears.
Kate wasn’t the greenhorn child Muggs had insisted she was. She knew as plain as day—or night—that Julia had just been pulled from azure eyes. Julia is a wild concerto of dizzying, depraved, Dionysian, downtown sex. And for that, Kate wasn’t sure whether to be apologetic or apostatic.
Julia hadn’t held a romantic interest in anyone in a long time. Her nights with men were purely sport, and she was usually rid of them the following day. But Kate couldn’t begin to calculate how long this affair had been going on since Muggs seemed to know his way around the flat well enough. And that he was there, in Julia’s flat, having been in her bedroom no less. Julia never took men home. She always went to their lodgings for the night.
The older girl looked at Kate like a wounded deer, uncertain if she should offer a hand or stay put. Kate peered back at her with a tilted head and wide eyes, still reeling from the heretical idea of what had been happening in the bedroom just a few feet beyond while she’d been in the coffeehouse. If Muggs had been around for as long as Kate reckoned he was, this must’ve been more than just recreational to Julia.
Not that Julia would ever say the words ‘romance’ aloud in an appliance to her own life. God forbid Muggs do the same. Hell, Kate couldn’t either.
Julia limped further past the threshold, her stance cautious, as she’d just barged in on Kate rather than the other way around. She hugged the arms around herself tighter, which caused her breasts to pop up to an eyeful degree that even Lola Montez would deem scandalous. Kate almost wanted to warn her, but then it occurred to her like a crashing ton of bricks that she wasn’t the only one in the room who had seen Julia’s tits. She wondered, to her horror, if Muggs had her beat on several occasions.
“Matthew doesn’t screw any woman with a pulse, Katherine,” Julia said irritably. “I’ve seen him turn down Cards Mahoney’s mother. Her being Lion Valentino’s lover and such.”
“Are her answers to your satisfaction? You asked what I’m doin’ here, and there she is.” Muggs sank onto the sofa, sprawling exasperatedly as he fiddled with the cushions in the dark. “She hasn’t gotten groceries in two weeks. So, I decided to do her a good turn and fix dinner.”
“A favor, was it?” Kate stared at him, hesitant to believe Muggs would pull an act of kindness on a whim. “Nothing else…like a debt? You feed her in exchange for her bed?”
“Nothin’ else.”
Julia could read Kate’s face in a flash as she looked to her for confirmation. “Well, she seems to have speculated the rest on her own, and correctly so. Let’s not lie.”
Muggs shook his head. “Julia—”
“For heaven’s sake, Matthew, you’ve got a throw pillow over your trousers. She’s not dumb.” Julia cleared her throat, oddly appearing helpless and fiercely resolute as she peered back at Kate. “If he’s too childish to admit what we were doing, I will.”
“Oh my God,” Kate muttered, rubbing her eyes as if to erase the picture Julia had painted.
Kate’s stare flipped to Muggs, who didn’t look embarrassed. He gave a bemused shrug as Kate grimaced.
“I came here to apologize,” Muggs clarified.
“What, with your dick?” Kate rasped, sounding like her throat was overrun with glass shards.
Julia sighed, placing a hand on her aching head. “Katherine—”
“With my dick—no, what the hell, Moore?” Muggs had fired back, looking somehow offended by the idea. “What part of ‘I made her dinner’ ain’t sinkin’ the fuck in?”
“Oh, enough. The two of you.” Julia groaned.
Mulling over whether she should tell the beastly Brooklyn cove that gentlemen erred on the side of not accepting oral sex from sylphlike barmaids as payment for cooking a meal, Kate held back. Her mind was spent enough for the night. She could do without the vision of salacious acts Julia liked performing, not when Muggs was on the receiving end. Especially not when Kate remembered that Muggs usually held up his end of a square deal. Shameless in his sexual prowess. Averse to letting a woman do all the work.
“Do you know how long it takes to make goulash?” Muggs went on, gesturing to the kitchen. “I burned myself twice—”
“Okay, okay,” Kate objected. “I could do without the details.”
“You wanted to know the truth not five minutes ago, you fickle lunan.”
“Well, I’ve changed my mind.”
“Relax, pussycat. I’m not takin’ advantage of her. You think a dead rabbit bloss like Jules would let a fellow even try?”
Kate’s eyes whipped to Julia, giving her a dramatic and perplexed glare. “Jules?” Kate echoed the nickname, watching Julia shrug and hide her blush in the darkness of the doorway, pulling her robe tighter.
“And you’re right,” Muggs continued, “we were havin’ a hell of a time—”
“I don’t want you to finish, Tracey. Can you afford me that, at least?”
Muggs nodded to the pillow. “I didn’t get to finish anyway, Moore. I don’t owe you shit.”
“I said stop! God!” Kate shrieked. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Oh, like you ain’t doin’ the same things with Conlon. It ain’t like I’m hikin’ up her skirt and bendin’ her over the fire escape—”
“Do stop treading water, Matthew,” Julia interrupted, brushing her well-manicured fingers through Muggs’ tousled hair before collapsing beside him on the sofa. “Katherine’s liable to drown you before throwing you a life vest.”
Muggs’ eyes flickered, puzzled. He’d never considered Kate a threat before.
Julia got to her feet quickly, as if she’d sat on a nail. “God, I’m sorry, Katherine. It would be best if you were half-starved. I know you didn’t eat tonight. Would you like me to find something—”
Kate quieted her by sitting in one of the armchairs beside the fireplace across from the two. Julia refrained from saying anything else and fiddled obsessively with her hair as she sank back down next to Muggs, her warm leg touching his.
“So,” Kate said. Cool. Amenable. “Can I ask?”
“You may do as you please,” Julia mumbled.
Kate found herself staring from one face to the other. “Julia’s kindness to strays is unmatched. So, it doesn’t surprise me that she’d offer you a place to stay. Neither of you are as…subtle as you think you are. The stove works now. I noticed that a week ago. And since neither use it, I knew someone else must’ve set to the task.”
“Where’s the question?” Muggs interjected.
“Go on,” Julia prompted, still staring at a lock of her blonde hair, twisting it between her fingers.
“And the night I came back for my nightgown, and you said you saw a rat,” Kate continued, chewing on her lip intermittently. “It’s just…” She grimaced again and shifted her shoulders to pull her knees to her chest, almost defensively. “I’ve known you most of your life, Julia. You don’t scream like that at the sight of a rat.”
Julia’s face turned a crimson shade in the faint candlelight. “Scream like what?”
Kate raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. “Do you want me to reenact it?”
“No,” Julia and Muggs said harmoniously.
Kate rolled her eyes. “Okay, who exactly knows that you’re…fraternizing?”
Julia went mute again as Muggs sniffed in amusement. “It’s okay, Moore,” he teased with a smirk that should’ve warranted a good elbow to the ribs from Julia. “You can say fucking.”
Julia coughed. “Spot knows. Grim, too, I think. Maybe a few others, but not because I told them.”
Shrugging off her coat, Kate scrubbed wearily at her face. “Muggs, you said you came here to apologize. For what?”
Julia examined Muggs’ wrist while Muggs inspected Julia’s left ankle. A couple of tries at a sentence hindered them. But they fortified and told Kate everything. Kate took the revelation with more grace than Julia had expected. She saw how Julia’s chin wobbled, how Muggs leisurely but thoughtfully draped a skinny arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him and continuing to rub her arm. Soothing, rhythmic. Mostly, it made Kate wonder if she’d misjudged his intentions. Just because a man has rough and calloused hands doesn’t mean he’s numb to love—carpenters craft cradles, after all.
Thus, Kate ceased staring at Muggs like he was an unwelcome voyeur. Silently wishing he’d follow suit in the way he stared at her.
Finally, everything was laid out—once they were all embarrassed, Julia opened the same stolen vodka and shared it. She drank from the small, charming French sauce bowls she resurrected in the dark, as they were the only clean items.
“All right.” Kate struggled upright with new determination. “I’m for Spot’s. He’s no doubt sent a search party by now.”
“Easy, Evangelina Cosio.” Muggs glanced at the gilded clock on the mantle. “It’s three in the mornin’. You aren’t walkin’ at this hour. Hell, no. I’ll hail you a cab. And straight to Conlon’s mind.”
“I’m not a child,” Kate tiffed.
Muggs tilted his head sadly. “Who’s debatin’ that, you madcap? I’m not lettin’ you walk to Conlon’s. You can hate me all you want.”
“Jesus.” Kate’s mind spun in tired circles, then settled on Muggs’ words. “Fine. I’ll pay for the cab, though.”
“You’d better.” He tossed Kate a lofty smile. “Startin’ to ruin my reputation with all these good deeds.”
“From your lips to the devil’s ears,” Kate said as she pulled her coat and scarf back on.
“That’s much better,” Julia observed.
“I agree. Good night, Julia. I’m sorry for raiding your home like an outlaw.”
“Please, raid at your leisure, my wild Irish rose.” Julia settled a pensive elbow on her leg and leaned forward. “You’re the prettiest outlaw I know.”
“And the loudest,” Muggs mumbled. But there wasn’t an ounce of spite in it. It was a joke beneath those mischievous eyes and half-dimpled grin. Giving Julia a quick kiss on the top of her hair, Muggs turned to Kate, who was already at the door. “Shall we?”
Kate wasn’t sure if Muggs flagged the hansom cab with a wave of his large hand or if it had been her well-practiced whistle. As she climbed in, Muggs, with a stone face, informed the driver of where to drop Kate and slipped him a coin before Kate could object.
“Be good to her,” Kate said to Muggs’ boots before dragging her eyes to meet his. “I just…have to say it.”
“I’ve always been good to her.” Muggs’ hazy grin turned esurient. “You just ain’t around to see it.”
Chapter 9: Spit Out Blood
Summary:
Muggs’ mouth opened slightly as he ran his tongue over his lower teeth, from canines to incisors to canines, as he often did when deliberating. It was both frightening and wonderful to watch.
“Are you aware, Miss Hawthorne,” he queried, “that open wounds, especially those doused with river water, will rot and fever if left untreated? Even if the swellin’ stops, the blood will poison and spread until you rot. But soakin’ them in vodka circulates the blood and keeps it from plaguin’ the body like the ‘Italians and Slavs plague the city. Saves lives, does vodka.”
Muggs lifted a bruised fist and dropped coins onto the counter, letting them clatter and settle.
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
July 4, 1897
Brooklyn, NY
It was a scorching summer day in July when Muggs had withstood forty rounds with the famous Jake Kilrain on a barge quarantined in the East River garbage docks. Colm Tracey insisted Muggs abstain from opium, the drink, and women for a whole week to ensure he was mean for the fight—just cocaine, which Muggs knew was against the rules. And there Muggs stood that morning, with the tang of sweat on his tongue, a fresh surge of burny stinging his nose. The summer sunlight transformed the two fighters’ shoulders and torsos into a sore, tanned red. The opposing coves and Colm’s fellow enginemen from the no. 33 company observed and gambled from the nearby steamships and rowboats, chanting and showing their cash—bobbing out of view, then dipping up with the recede and rise of the waves.
Muggs knew he wouldn’t win. Kilrain was a bullish pugilist, rugged and sturdy as a lumberman. Not to mention twenty years Muggs' senior. Emotionless, dark eyes gazed carefully out of his vast, mustache face, not missing a thing. Scores of his backers had turned out to support him, and the second he stepped out to his corner in the ring, it was immediately evident that he aimed to end Muggs as fast and business-like as he could. Maybe kill him if the poor lad wasn’t cut out for the match.
Muggs didn’t have a prayer. As soon as the starting bell rang, Muggs had attempted a method he’d been taught from his older brother Jesse, abruptly lunging at Kilrain and mooring as firm on the sundeck as he could, wanting to knock him off kilter on the swaying boat.
But Kilrain was much too big to move. Instead, he predicted Muggs’ trick, waited for him to try it, and hit him with an incredible blow as he got close. It sent Muggs spinning to the deck floor before he could even process the hit. The men on the ships hollered and clapped with excitement.
“Call the coroner, there’ll be a fresh plot in Potter’s Field!” someone shouted.
Kilrain gave Muggs a slight, tough snigger of gratification as he stalked back to his corner, his face clear as day: You’re nothing but a boy, eh?
Muggs pulled his body back to a chair in his corner. The guidelines of the fight were identical to the ones on land—the rounds concluded when a man was down, and the fight continued until one conceded or fell unconscious. One of Colm’s Tammany rabbits, Jab Johnson, mopped Muggs’ sweat-soaked chest and arms up and down with river water while Colm checked Muggs’ head for wounds, nearly pulling black hair from the roots as he searched.
“Christ, and you’re bleeding there. Careful where you land—” Colm beseeched him, patting at the injury with alcohol before Muggs shoved him away irritably.
“He ain’t gonna tag me from behind.”
Colm licked his finger, plunged it into a tin of cocaine—once containing peppermints—and dug out a large amount. “You’d better not let him then. Open.” He shoved the finger into Muggs’ mouth, stuffing his son’s gums with the powder. He grabbed Muggs’ jaw and angled it from side to side. “How is it?”
“Can’t feel my mouth no more.”
With a nod, Colm delivered a quick smack to the side of Muggs’ face in satisfaction as the bell rang again. “Good boy. No mercy, now.”
The two fighters had trailed one another in a circle around the deck as morning turned into noon. Muggs was quicker than the reigning pugilist, capable of ducking low or swerving to the side at the last moment. But debts were permanently settled. Kilrain punched the young man with more force than Muggs had ever been punched in a fight. It was more painful than anything he had suffered at the hands of neighborhood toughs, fellow Randall’s Island inmates, or even his father—and punching Kilrain back was like punching a bear. Muggs’ knuckles sprang off the pugilist’s skull, the creased line between his eyes. When Muggs returned to his corner after the fifteenth round, his tapered fingers looked like a hacked muscle, like ten long, bloody snakes.
“You’ll break your fingers off at the rate you’re goin’,” Colm warned him again. Splaying them out expertly, then cautiously sucking the syrupy blood and dirt from Muggs’ raw knuckles. Spitting the waste into a pale, then dousing them repeatedly with sawdust. Muggs howled and bit his lip, ignoring the sting as his father packed the wounds. “Hey, none of that!” Colm hissed in his ear. Muggs squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, drawing a shaky breath. “Now, mind your fingers, boy, and mind them good.”
“To hell with my fingers,” Muggs announced, getting his father to furrow his brow. But Muggs meant it. To hell with his body if it meant he wouldn’t go down. Another dirty fingerful of cocaine forced its way past his immobile lips and onto his gums. Muggs’ entire face began to tingle.
If he were fighting a cove his age, he’d have put his bloodied knuckles to clever use—he’d let Colm pour alcohol and sawdust on them to high heaven, let them burn and gouge the eyes of his adversary. But Muggs realized he'd likely die on that barge if he attempted anything like that with Kilrain. Kilrain’s rallying rabbits, with their blades, guns, and substantial wagers, would toss him to the fishes in a heartbeat.
Muggs was forced to continue circling, withstand his thrashing—and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. The familiar, heartless adrenaline bubbling up from his groin to his chest. The more Kilrain punched him, the more he needed to punch in return. Narrowing in, careless of the uppercuts pelting off his face, stomach, and sides. Each hit fueled him to swing repeatedly. His mouth, soured with the taste of blood, watered for more.
The match continued through twenty rounds, then twenty-five—then thirty. Each finished with Muggs lying prone or prostrate on the barge’s deck floor. The heat scorched his back and neck so severely that he wanted to cry out each time he moved to hit. The pain reminded him of the cat's torture from the House of Refuge. The chalked square was piled with flour between the rounds, but the two boxers continued to glide and trip on the deck, wet with gore and sweat.
He thought like the floor beneath me after lashing with the cats. It would be splattered with blood as I was untied and brought to my feet, dragged past the girl who was meant to mop it away—
The thirty-second round had finished when Kilrain tripped and landed on the deck by accident, and Muggs hoped the man was too exhausted to go on by then. But Kilrain was back up for the thirty-third, pounding Muggs swiftly to the floor, and then the young man surrendered any thoughts of coming out victorious.
But he fought to keep up nonetheless. He did not regard his well-being, only to know how hard he could push himself before his body gave out. And to Muggs’ satisfaction, Kilrain’s pulped face showed evidence of his effort. The man wore a tender welt above each of his stony eyes. He had a couple of scratches on his muzzle and jaw, his oiled mustache marked and tangled with blood.
Muggs knew most of it was his blood. He knew he looked gruesome from how Jab Johnson grimaced when he returned to the corner. It must’ve been not good. Muggs figured it was no good returning home to Water Street that night. He’d only get an I told you so from Alexei and a scream out of Colleen. She’d cry at the mere sight of him. Muggs could count on it.
He’d already vomited twice in a bucket that Colm shoved in front of him before tossing it overboard. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the heat, the beating, or the nauseous sensation from being on the water—even if the barge wasn’t far from the docks. His nose and lips were completely numb. There was a relentless buzzing sound in his ears, and his eyes had swollen so that he could barely see Kilrain lunging for him.
Before the fortieth round started, Muggs could hear the mob chanting his name. Throwing in more dollars and dimes, betting on how long the Tracey kid could go. Back in his corner, Jab urged him to concede, warning Muggs he’d be paralyzed or murdered if he went back out for a fortieth round.
“Why, you got stakes on my quitting, Jab?” Muggs mumbled to him, staggering back to the center of the ring.
Why did Jab or any of his father’s friends care if Muggs lived? Anyway, Muggs was dead inside already. That’s what the society folks at the House of Refuge told him—
Muggs decided this was the final round. Even if his brain wanted to keep fighting, his body couldn’t weather any more damage—his fists were decimated, his fingers and nails injured and unusable. He’d never been knocked unconscious during a brawl. He had no idea what it was like to be beaten into a faint. Part of him lusted after it hungered for it. To feel nothing at all and sleep for a long while.
He stepped further into the ring and swung an animalistic, winding left hook at Kilrain, deliberately falling short. The pugilist drew close and struck a quick right blow to his jaw, making Muggs dizzy but failing to throw him off balance. You have to work for it. Kilrain continued circling him, as slow and relentless as a tiger. Muggs lowered his fists and—on an instinct that his father’s coves would recall for years in the engine houses and the dive bars—spat out blood so that it bounced spitefully off the pugilist’s cheek.
“What are ya waitin’ for, ya pale son of a bitch?” Muggs had stuttered in a voice so hoarse only Kilrain could hear.
Kilrain gaped at him inquisitively, wondering if this was a ploy—or perhaps he didn’t understand what Muggs had said thanks to his swollen jaw. Still, Kilrain barreled forward—faking a left hook, expertly timed and executed. Muggs couldn’t see the right fist before it was too late. It was a direct, shattering hit and mighty for a man fighting his fortieth round. The left fist found Muggs, too, almost instantly. An immaculate coupling, knocking him so forcefully that Muggs felt an exploding sensation in his head, and his feet lifted off the ground. His eyes rolled back as he swooned, like a saint in a gothic cathedral mural, before hitting the deck floor. Unconscious.
The mob was carrying him high above their heads when he woke up. The gangsters and the enginemen delightedly paraded him up and down the barge, scattered with their Independence Day streamers and banners. As he caught his breath, he saw his father collecting money from the gamblers. The ones who’d bet against Muggs lasted for as long as he did. He realized he’d never see a cent of it. His battered chest rose and fell as he panted, knowing Colm would surely drag him out to his gang’s watering holes to celebrate that night. Make him shake hands with Tammany rabbits and other Brooklyn mobsters. Force-feed him shots of all-sorts liquor that tasted like shoe polish. Send him upstairs with a harem of whores to kiss his scars and wash his feet like the Mary Magdalene’s they were supposed to be. Let him bathe in some grimy basin at the engine house so Muggs could soak his tired body and let the water sting until the pain turned into pleasure.
Muggs was so faint and sick from both the fight and the sight of the water, but he couldn’t gather the strength to throw up. So, he gawked drearily at the other side of the ring, at Kilrain being cleaned and massaged by his men. He was still on his feet and rigid as a board, glaring back at Muggs and offering the young man an impressed half-smile meant to demonstrate his respect for Muggs’ refusal to surrender.
Muggs could only scowl and shakily raise a middle finger in the pugilist’s direction. Kilrain only glowered and went back to talking with his constituents—not understanding that while he’d won, he’d failed to do what Muggs had wanted. He was supposed to beat Muggs until nothing remained, until Muggs couldn’t feel at all until he was good and dead—
But it hadn’t been in the cards. Muggs was conscious now, and the drunk Tammany men carried him around the barge until he passed out again. They brought him down to the deck and drenched him with foul East River water until his bloodshot green eyes opened again, displeased to find himself still in the clutches of the living.
Muggs had first caught Julia’s eyes when she walked to a table of his father’s cronies at the Brooklyn Inn, serving drinks to the group, some of the most celebrated firefighters and gang coves in Brooklyn. That was last January. Her features were as severe and lovely as an angel’s, and Muggs figured she could get anything she wanted with a face like that.
“Why, if it ain’t young ‘Nelly Bly, the darling girl’ herself!” a man’s voice had exclaimed lazily, nicknaming Julia after the object of affection from the folk song.
Jab was lounging back on a tilted chair, a fireman dressed in red flannel—an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He was dark-haired, though lighter than Colm’s and Muggs.’ He had a beard along his ample jaw, which wasn’t the style. Jab was a loyal gopher as much as the pope was catholic. He was the kind of man who believed shining Colm’s shoes was the highest honor.
As for Julia, becoming involved with the son of the coldest, cruelest, cocksure former fire captain turned gangster had been an accident, as most romances are.
Then again, becoming a crusader for unions and suffrage hadn’t been what eleven-year-old Julia Hawthorne had pictured herself doing as a young woman. Still, at the same time, she figured Katherine Moore and others like her would say something similar since both of those efforts seemed fruitless years ago. Strikes weren’t a new concept, but they didn’t explode in number like they did once the clock struck 1900 on New Year’s.
But on that scorching Fourth of July night in 1896, Julia was tending bar at the Brooklyn Inn, as she’d been doing for a year. The hazy moonlight soaking under the front door was stabbing the grime into the wooden floorboards. Julia loved summer and admired its splendid green that blanketed the earth when she’d helped Riggs for a stint on his houseboat, delivering goods to Oyster Bay at fifteen. That was something special. She was sailing back with the sunlight dancing through her hair and the fresh, cool, salted water spraying her face. The wind was barmy and damp like fresh dough in the afternoons, and Julia could smell the salt and rain alone.
If she closed her eyes now, she could block out the combination of dried blood and the dead cat partly concealed near the front stoop of the tavern as the stench from the creature’s carcass grew more vital in the heat. Legend had it there were waste patrolmen in Brooklyn tasked with keeping the streets and alleys clean. Julia would believe it if she saw it. Her issue of The Eagle was spread out before her, wholly devoured as she’d read the whole thing soon after her shift began—as usual—and it proclaimed a record high in temperature and that a handful of bridge workers had collapsed due to heat syncope, one having died. The article had decidedly put a damper on her beloved season. She didn’t want to brood her whole shift, however. Not that evening.
She was certain any minute, Muggs Tracey would enter the pub. She hadn’t seen him for a week, which was unheard of in their tacit record of meetings. She’d been wanting a few words with him. Well, she would attempt a few words. As of late, she’d concluded that studying him from afar wouldn’t suffice.
The Inn was designed in the typical style as most other pubs, and Julia treasured its flawless consistency: an extensive island of a bar, perfect for the slate clam trays and loads of ale glasses and the pints of schnapps or brandy. She was shadowed as a cavern, as it was set back from the street. At daybreak, sunshine struck brilliantly, and in the evenings, Julia lit the black lanterns that cast welcoming flame scripts toward the ceiling. There were few fixtures, save for a sequence of tables with simple chairs along the perimeters, with candles at each, though no one ever lit them. The Inn was not a place for a discrete rendez-vous. It was an environment for the wild cats and dogs to yell gossip through the place following political meetings at The Hall, all while Julia did nothing to quiet them.
She leaned over the counter idly, measuring out a pale of beer for a blonde-braided girl she’d never seen before. The pier was usually filled with wobbly out-of-town persons attempting to regain their land legs, and the Inn was near the river. The lass lingered with her eyes fixed on Julia’s work and her tiny hands on the oak bar as she hopped anxiously from foot to foot. Her stance was like a hummingbird’s. She looked too small to be fourteen but too wary to be twelve. Skinny-limbed with bags beneath her eyes, she searched the floor for food residue.
“This isn’t for you, is it?” Julia smeared her hands on her pinafore, putting away the ceramic pitcher.
“No. It’s for Mama,” she replied in an Eastern European accent unfamiliar to Julia’s ears.
“Fifty-six cents, please.”
Her fingers shot from her apron with a motley collection of money.
“Looks like you have just enough here,” Julia fibbed. “The pale is yours. I’m Julia Hawthorne. I don’t tamper with the drinks and always pour what you pay.”
“I appreciate it,” she said, grasping for the pale.
The girl’s eyes were strained, and the bags grew into ever heavier circles. Julia observed murky whale oil wax stains at the sleeves of her torn dress, thanks to the lamps she sewed piecework under in a sweltering tenement. It looked like her most recent patroness was a garment sewer. Fascinating.
So goes the stereotypical bartender’s game: Julia deduced many things about strangers. A good Brooklyn barmaid was she. Finding the distinction between a Bohemian river pirate with a job in illegally imported liquor and the alderman’s brother requesting the same pitcher of alcohol was child’s play. Barmaids are significantly compensated for their wit and cunning, and Julia is stowing all her hard-earned money like a national bank. For a life she’d only ever dreamed of.
“It’s never too late for a woman to start a new career.”
The sparkling blonde hummingbird’s head tilted.
“Sewing piecework,” Julia explained. “If you go blind, the pay stops altogether.” One of the girl’s boots lifted, becoming more anxious. “You’ve no candle, I think, and must share with several others to perfect your stitches? Alright, forget that fuss and speak with the flower sellers. They make a decent profit this time of year and enjoy fresh air and sunlight without getting their little ears boxed.”
The girl hurried away with a shrug like a shudder, holding the sloshing pale in her arms. In her wake, she left behind a clever and considerate barmaid.
“No point in offering sage advice to these moppets,” Riggs sang from the opposite side of the oak bar plank, drinking his evening glass of brandy. “Best if she’d fallen into an eternal sleep on the voyage over and trust up in a blanket for the sea.”
Riggs was New York-born, and he wasn’t very political. His features were canine and elongated, and his skin was ambiguously olive from his work under a scorching sun. He worked as a goods transporter these days and acted as his contractor. For years before that, he was a mineral prospector, and though it was unclear where he’d gotten his education, he was as well-read as an Oxford man and clever as the devil, too.
The places he’d traveled to were evident in the décor of his houseboat. Once inside, Julia was faced with a caravansary of treasures: incense, paintings, animal bones, weapons, jars of spices, ostrich eggs, calabashes, hatchets, and arrowheads. His cabin trunks were covered with hotel labels from Egypt, California, Sri Lanka, Japan, England, Shanghai, Australia, Peru, East British Africa, Russia, and Sudan. And from the Chinese Eastern Railway and several shipping lines, including the Bibby Line, Dollar Line, P & O, and Nippon Yusen Kaisha. He’d dazzled Julia with stories of narrow escapes from the natives in Panama, the splendid markets of Timbuktu, and the green fields of France. He’d been a ship’s boy in Brazil and seen a high bridge in the Himalayas. His library was extensive, with much to do on tales of the sea and gold mining. He kept threatening to write a memoir to preserve his stories, but Julia never saw him putting much effort into a pen and paper.
Riggs wasn’t fond of children, though he made exceptions for Julia and Katherine Moore. Julia liked children fine, as she’d always appreciated their honesty. How they said whatever was on their minds. She envied that.
Riggs wasn’t fond of Eastern European immigrants either, all because a flaxen-haired Russian woman had broken his heart while he was anchored in St. Petersburg as a young man. But that was more in jest, as Riggs treated everyone equally, no matter where they came from. He had no patience for nativists. Still, plenty disliked all immigrants into America’s democracy on principle. That was a widespread sentiment.
Julia couldn’t understand the point of it, hating a group of people for accepting the cheapest-paying, dirtiest jobs when the cheapest-paying, dirtiest jobs were all they’d been allowed, but it wasn’t like New York was known for its bleeding heart. The cheapest-paying, dirtiest jobs were becoming far fewer now that more people poured in daily.
“You skimmed The Eagle,” Julia said, trying not to sound exasperated. “An influx of thirty thousand since last winter, and you’d see them thrown to some miserable sea tomb? They don’t know their options. I’d rather tend to a bar than work in a sweatshop, but I’d rather work in a sweatshop than a brothel.”
“Oh, to be young and hopeful,” Riggs jeered, raking a hand through the salt and pepper hay that passed for hair. “You skimmed The Eagle, too. That eastern wasteland is on the brink of rebellion. And I heard there was a murder most foul at the coronation of the tzar. Did you read that? Citizens trampled to death. Disastrous, simply monstrous. But I am shocked I am not. That empire prizes pelmeni for princes and poisons porridge for peasants. You prove me wrong. Yes, you shall see a revolution over there in your lifetime. Mark me. And then where will the tzar be when his palace is trampled upon, too?”
Julia chewed on her lip. Riggs wasn’t condemning the people but rather the failure of the aristocracy, which was often overlooked when discussing the mass flood of immigrants. Still, Julia had usually been surprised by the wise commentary patrons had tossed in her direction regarding the Italian Roman Catholics and the Russian Jews, the default stereotypes of both groups—patrons who were usually reasonable on other topics. Julia didn’t let such talk ruffle her feathers for two reasons. While it was possible to fix ignorance, the willful stupidity ran deep. And two, she lacked the interest or energy for such arguments. She knew changing someone’s worldview in a few minutes was a fool’s errand. Americans had disliked ‘invading hoards’ since 1776, and nothing would change.
Riggs misinterpreted her stillness for disagreement. He shook his head, drinking his brandy. “The poor devils have resorted to thievery to avoid starvation as soon as they come ashore. For pity’s sake, don’t they have almshouses in Europe?”
And come ashore, they would. That was a guarantee. Julia would sometimes stroll by the harbor after work on her way home, and she saw iron steamboats as big as monoliths, carrying both passengers and lice. It had been that way since she could remember—even when she was a girl, peering over her father’s shoulder as he read The Times, seeing illustrations of emaciated passengers clamoring off the gangplank. But now there were new jobs, machines to operate, and trolleys to fix. It didn’t matter if one felt sympathy for immigrants or cursed their homelands. Everyone in New York could agree on one thing: there were far too many, and the city had far too little to accommodate them. Scores of Italians, Russians, and Irish to Manhattan and Brooklyn. Scandinavians to the west. Germans to farmland. New York had become overrun within the last decade alone, with emigrants huddling in riverside alleyways, begging for soup from the thieves until they assumed the trade themselves to survive. Just three days ago, Julia walked by a boat unloading ninety or so persons from Italy, the immigrants gazing tearfully up at the sprawling mega-city as if it were a dream.
“Philanthropy isn’t very ecclesiastical, Riggs,” Julia said with a wry smile. She mimicked the street preachers she’d seen, who came down from Buffalo and Rochester to gawk at the city’s vices. “After all, the Bible tells us, ‘The poor ye have always with you.’”
“Philanthropy is dead.” Riggs scowled, setting his tumbler on the bar with a soft clink. “I dare say New York will not take on philanthropic endeavors unless there’s something to be gained in return. They’d sooner save a racehorse from starving than a Sicilian. Put me down for a bowl of clams, would you?”
Julia shouted Riggs’ request for a baker’s dozen salted clams to Marisol, the young Romani miss and cousin of the Kina’s who cleaned and split open the clam valves in the summer.
Riggs had a quick and stubborn comeback for any scenario, and he never tired of the sound of his voice. Julia thought about telling him as much. But at that moment, a black shadow pierced the lance of moonlight beneath the door, and Muggs Tracey sauntered into her tavern.
“Evenin', sailor,” Muggs threw Riggs’ way in a hoarse little tune. Muggs didn’t know Riggs, but he’d seen him often enough in the bar to realize he was a regular and a sea dog Muggs should know about. He fixed his gaze on Julia now. “Evenin', Miss Hawthorne.”
If Muggs Tracey were any more wickedly beautiful, he could slip past St. Peter’s gates by Luciferian looks alone. But his laundry list of moral flaws kept the doors padlocked. His strong jaw and lips angled into a smirk like most Brooklyn coves when they discussed unseemly exploits. His green eyes were set deep in his skull, giving them a hollow appearance, and beneath were perpetual dark circles—brought on by bruising or insomnia—like the rings of Saturn. This gave him a sullen brood, an aloof glare as he listened to what he was being told. He was staring a thousand yards away, but his mind was always ticking, only giving the impression he wasn’t paying attention so that when he did speak, he was malicious and knowing. This unnerved many an admirer. Muggs was manipulative as Machiavelli, sinewy as a Spartan, and raised exclusively on Tammany propaganda and rhetoric by his fire captain gangster of a father, Colm Tracey.
The women who found him pretty had a hell of a time coaxing him away from the powders he prayed to. It was a try in good faith, though. But the only gods Muggs worshiped were Erythroxylon the coca and Papaver the soporific, and he’d slaughtered enough lambs to be high priest.
“Give me a gallon…or two? No, one should do the trick. Of vodka, Miss Hawthorne,” he demanded, forgetting to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ in a line of neglect so long that Julia had lost count. “Why’s your face all screwed up?”
Julia could ask the same of him. His hair was clean, for once, indicating he’d bathed recently, but his face was swollen and cut. A fight, perhaps? This was the most he’d ever spoken to her past their mutual greetings and him placing an order. He’d never inquired about anything else. So why was this occasion so different?
Muggs didn’t have a pale like the immigrant girl had, so Julia dutifully reached for a bucket below the bar. He only had a suitcase with him—something a newsboy might carry—filled as though he’d stopped by the market from whatever dust-up he’d been in the middle of. And could she already smell whiskey on his breath? Julia couldn’t be sure without leaning in closer, but that was far out of the question. The suitcase contained a loaf of bread, a jar of garlic, another turmeric, and an ink-smeared copy of The Eagle shoved to the side. It was an odd assortment of items, to be sure.
“Riggs has staked his life on New York’s abandonment of charity in favor of cheap labor in tinder-box tenements. And something about Russia imploding on itself any day now.”
“Vodka,” Riggs observed tartly. “I never knew an Irishman who had the taste for vodka.”
Taking in the comment, Muggs ran a palm over a section of ink-black mop that had fallen into his face, already beginning the greasy process of dirtying it. Julia mourned its cleanliness.
Muggs’ mouth opened slightly as he ran his tongue over his lower teeth, from canines to incisors to canines, as he often did when deliberating. It was both frightening and wonderful to watch.
“Are you aware, Miss Hawthorne,” he queried, “that open wounds, especially those doused with river water, will fester and fever if left untreated? Even if the swellin’ stops, the blood will poison and spread until you rot. But soakin’ them in vodka circulates the blood and keeps it from plaguin’ the body like the ‘Italians and Slavs plague the city. Saves lives, does vodka.”
Muggs lifted a bruised fist and dropped coins onto the counter, letting them clatter and settle.
“Are you satisfied, Riggs?” Julia teased the older man to her left.
“Was I meant to satisfy Miss Hawthorne?” Muggs countered.
There went his trademark, and Zeus might strike Julia down with lightning if it didn’t cease to turn her legs to molasses. A tilt of his head, a narrowing of eyes, and a furrowing brow as the lips curled upward, acting as though Julia were the only person worth looking at. It was enough to erase Julia’s knowledge of respiration.
Riggs snuffled in amusement, realizing he was now a million miles away from the two young people. For a seventeen-year-old, Julia didn’t know where Muggs got the gall snubbing a man like Riggs.
“You look like you’ve come off the front lines of Shiloh. Let me carry the bucket to your place or wherever you go. It’s no trouble, really,” Julia offered politely, walking around the counter with Muggs’ vodka, wondering for a fleeting moment if he lived in an alley somewhere altogether unpleasant.
She could hear that little voice inside her buzzing about, wondering, Is this to be it, then? She’d seen Muggs drink and gamble in her tavern for six months. She’d seen him get tossed out, too, and banned for a week when he’d broken the back of a store clerk whom Muggs claimed had put knock-out drops in a Polish immigrant’s drink. Wanting to avoid bad business, the owner had thrown both a cursing Muggs and the immigrant girl to the door, leaving them wandering off into the November chill. Julia had counted down the days until she saw him again. Things didn’t have to change. They could all stay the same. She would continue to pour him drinks and watch him throw knives at posters of President McKinley until she learned how to do the same, mimicking his form.
“Ain’t you supposed to stay here?” Muggs cocked an eyebrow.
“The void has called me. I do hope you’re not ashamed of a woman holding more alcohol than you.”
There was a glimmer in his eyes as she said those words. And with a sniff and another glance toward Riggs, he mumbled, “Not my place. Halfway will suit me fine. I am just past the harbor. Are you savvy? Well, let’s set to, little loll.”
The streets were teeming, and hats with curled brims obstructed Julia’s view over the ocean of black Norfolk coats. The road from the Inn to the docks was about three blocks long, south of the banks, all large brick shops with canopies protecting the perambulators from the relentless heat during the day. Unadulterated capitalism abounded. Under each awning was a banner, and pasted to the banners were advertisements: Double Albert watch chains for two dollars, Floriline for the teeth, and breath at six dollars a bottle. The crowded streets in Brooklyn were littered with screaming advertisements and full stops, and the peeled articles of the past were barely noticeable beneath the newly pasted posters. Julia caught sight of her father Robert Hawthorne’s regal likeness captured in a newspaper illustration and pasted to a window: Robert Hawthorne in favor of Sunday laws.
Fine and dandy. If that were true, Julia felt obliged to take the opposing position. In the city, corruption would be at every turn. Thievery would always thrive, beatings in the street were common occurrences, and homicide cases always grew cold. Closing saloons on Sundays would do little to stop it. If her father supported such a law, Julia would instead answer to whatever god demanded such a decree than agree with the man who’d wished her dead.
If Robert Hawthorne supported something, there was a good chance that something wasn’t reasonable.
“I figured having a lady by your side would spare you any more brawls you happen upon on your way,” she said to Muggs. She was only partly serious. Julia could hold her fine. She was agile and cautious, but it was a wee thing. A foot and then some inches smaller than Muggs if she wore her heeled boots. But Joan of Arc was a featherweight when she took on the entire English army. And Julia couldn’t let the Maid of Orleans down on a mundane Tuesday night. Not for a man’s sake, anyway.
“Mm? Mm, got it. Suppose I owe you somethin’ in return, then.”
Muggs hadn’t looked all that perturbed in his response. His seaweed-green eyes gave that much away, and Julia told herself to proceed with care. Muggs was hard to read. But Julia had been studying strangers' idiosyncrasies since she was eight, living in a bleak palace in Gramercy Park, and it only took her a week of observation to know everything she needed about a person’s intentions. She’d been observing Muggs for half a year, and he’d left her with nothing. No scientific breakthroughs anytime soon.
“I have a question for ya.” He waited, his hollow, brooding eyes descending toward Julia and then snapping back to the horizon. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid.”
“Maybe it isn’t.”
“My question is, how come you never call me ‘Muggs,’ Miss Hawthorne.”
Brooklyn’s air was rarely clean in July. As they strolled down Bank Row, they passed stock exchanges and brownstone offices in perfect order, flanked by Roman pillars and architecture. That’s when the wind became cool and refreshing. Perhaps it was all in Julia’s head, but the world suddenly smelled light caramel, roasted hazelnut, and unpolluted earth. Fresh, like coffee. She wanted to bottle it.
“I don’t understand the question,” she said.
“I see.” Muggs’ lips parted, and his tongue slowly marinated along his lower teeth. Julia wondered what it tasted like. “It’s just, you might’ve said, ‘I don’t understand the question, Mr. Tracey,’ and I would’ve known you’re that kind of gal. Then we could move on.”
That kind of gal? Julia noticed a dead rat in the cobblestone. Turning nimbly, Muggs steered Julia out of its way with a little whirl of her pale crimson fan skirt. He’d noticed the rat corpse himself, though Julia never saw his eyes meet the pavement once. It was automatic. He was blind to his surroundings yet always on high alert. When walking with Muggs down a street, his temperament permitting, his female companions wouldn’t likely charm much conversation out of him. Not if the mood didn’t strike him. Julia knew she wasn’t a Dolly Varden or a Lucie Manette—not like so many who clung to his arms were. She hadn’t been one of those Dickens girls in a long time. If anything, she felt more like a Biddy—empathetic yet reasonable. Realistic, more. But if it took becoming a Dolly or a Lucie to make it in Brooklyn alone, that’s who she’d be. To the public eye, anyway.
“Is there somethin’ wrong with my name, Ms. Hawthorne?” he asked her, appearing to stifle another smirk.
Julia knew she’d matched him for a tow at his game. He was answering his questions with questions of her own. It mirrored Muggs’ refusal to entertain questions about himself he didn’t much like. His almost playful deflection when he felt cornered by a girl. That’s something else Julia admired about Muggs. He was a Tammany fire captain’s son, and that much was clear, but Muggs spoke reverently, crooning like a troubadour, to women who didn’t scare easy. For a little while, anyway.
Julia realized he counted her among those ranks by his voice alone.
“Do you know what I want most in the world?” She asked him in kind, summoning strength and pushing out her chest. “I’ve been saving money since I was fourteen in secret, and now I have more than I dreamed any working woman could make by herself. I’m not a gambler and don’t waste my salary on French petticoats or drop cakes, though I’d like to. I want a place of my own, with a bathtub and a balcony, and to travel the world by sea. Study piano in Paris or caravan through Egypt on a camel. Or have my portrait painted in Italy. Trains are a lovely demonstration of modern achievement, but I can’t very well study the stars from a dining cart.”
Julia recalled the first year of her mutiny, running away from her home, bony and pallid, and recently fifteen. Cajoling her way through utter obstinacy into the service of an eccentric but friendly swashbuckling waterman Riggs—whom Julia jokingly nicknamed the Pirate King—in the middle of the most malnourished summers Kate and Julia had known, as they’d survived off roasted ears of corn for ten days. Perhaps Riggs had taken pity on the two girls, so he took them on. Julia remembered leaning over the front of the boat, a mop in hand to clean the deck, and her eyes lifted to the heavens as a blissful June downpour erupted despite the raging heat. Wind and water had whistled through her long hair for half an hour, and for half an hour, she didn’t think about whether Kate had gotten scurvy from staying below decks all day in Riggs’ library. It was pure pleasure. It is as if being reborn by the seafoam like Aphrodite.
Muggs’ long strides slowed as they finally reached the harbor. “Why tell me that when you still ain’t answered my question?”
To hell with it and swan dive, Julia told herself.
“Perhaps I don’t want to call you ‘Mr. Tracey’ or ‘Muggs,’” she replied. “Perhaps I’d like to call you by your Christian name. Will you grant me communion with such a secret?”
Muggs had stood back, his eyes returning to her again, looking north to south on her person and once more for good measure. This time, his tongue stayed dormant. No deliberation, then. He closed in, ducking to be at her level, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear as he whispered the name beside her head. His breath was warm and touchy, and his lips were so close he could bite her earlobe if he wanted.
Julia couldn’t help but shiver, couldn’t help the blood that rushed from her toes, powerless to stop her heart from doing a somersault rotation of beats. The whiskey on his breath was evident now, but Julia could smell soap on his skin. Perhaps even the rosewater mist of another girl on his collar.
When he pulled back, elongating his spine to its natural height, Julia could finally read a chapter of his book. Or at least a page. She knew his given name. How many others knew it, she wondered, and how many fewer used it regularly?
“Matthew—” Julia began to echo the name but was silenced when Muggs raised a bruised finger to his lips.
“Keep mouse, Miss Hawthorne,” he mumbled with a razor-lipped smile and another sweep of his hand through his mussed hair. He took the bucket of vodka from her, dipping a finger in and then sucking the liquid from it. “I know you will, too. You’re a game sort, and plenty sand for coming all this way.” Then he flipped coins into her empty palm with a knowing wink. “There’s two bits. Save it for your little place with a tub and terrace. Go somewhere dark as sin, fancy and flash.”
Fisting the coins in her hand, Julia protested, “I won’t take your money—”
“Yes, you will.” His voice was oiled with either veiled threat or insistence. Quick as a fox, Muggs smiled at Julia with sincere brilliance, and to her surprise, he still had all his teeth. “It ain’t much, but it’ll do, hm? It’ll do. Take them. Then stow it away with your French petticoats until you’ve got a ransom. I ain’t shy to say I’d enjoy a portrait of you from anywhere."
Julia felt her ears prickle at that, not sure if she should haul off and hit him for being so bold. Or say 'thank you.' "Why, maybe I—"
"So long as there ain't stitch on ya," he'd added, already turning away with the bucket and making for the waterfront.
Her cheeks burned, familiar wrathful storm clouds were gathering in her eyes, and she knew he was too far ahead now for her to smack. But maybe he could still have an accident by the docks if she were catlike in her execution. Then again, she could wait until he darkened her tavern again and mashed chili peppers into his whiskey.
It didn't matter anyhow. Muggs never came back to the Brooklyn Inn. It was like he'd disappeared off the mainland entirely. And Julia didn't hear from him for close to a year and a half, left with a foggy memory of walking back along the pier alone and feeling his cold metal coins clutched warmly in her hand.
Chapter 10: Don't Turn Your Back
Summary:
“I ain’t looking for a fight—” Spot tried, but all eyes were now on the two of them.
Whipping his apron over his shoulder, the barkeep quirked his brow at Spot. “Godspeed,” he whispered. “Don’t turn your back on him. Franz fights fair, but he ain’t stupid.”
Spot touched his cap in return, realizing the barkeep for an ally. All around them, people mumbled and stared. A flock of newsboys who’d just arrived noiselessly turned on their heels and walked out on instinct.
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
March 1902
Manhattan, NY
In the tumorous heart of Manhattan, close to Jack Kelly’s old lodging house, Spot started his quest for Colm Tracey. He’d walked Colm’s route several times, going up and down the usual haunts. On several occasions, he bore the reek of the Bowery—the core of vice and nightlife, cemented in blood of many varieties and initially inhabited by the shadows of immigrants and blacks. A figure was prone under the alabaster structure of McGurk’s Suicide Hall—the owner of no relation to Tide McGurk, Spot learned—that he first thought deceased but wracked with malnourishment and liquor-induced torpor. It was a Chinese boy of about seventeen. If the heavens were merciful, he would wake up the following day and sell his shirt for another pint of alcohol. If the odds weren’t in his favor, he’d wear a wooden coat and be sent to the Potter’s Field. His reedy jacket and navy pants were made of wool, and he held a flask of gin in his limp grasp.
You’re going to make yourself sick in the head, Spot cautioned, moving on.
Defeat rising, Spot began ducking into bars. Colm swore he didn’t have a drinking problem, but that held little weight. Barkeeps are public symbols, and Spot suddenly wished he’d sought employment as one. There’s rarely any accountability in serving spirits and listening to folks talk. A few bartenders Spot talked to were well-acquainted with Colm, but when he arrived at a lengthy, dark saloon where a native-born boy scampered after dented billiard balls, Spot got valuable information.
“Head down to the Tipper Inn, off Canal Street.” The saloonkeeper sniffed and shook his head. “Tracey’s always there. One of them, anyway. When they ain’t fighting fires, see.”
Spot didn’t quite see. But he thanked the man anyway with a few coins. Several of them spent their free time at the fire station. They were waiting unwearyingly for mischief. Several of the engine men, like the police, create their mischief, collecting graft from illegal alcohol sellers, pimps, gambling hounds—all those involved in improprieties who’d rather pay than go to jail.
Spot supposed Colm’s method involved an organization that fostered the Colm Tracey agenda and only the Colm Tracey agenda.
The Tipper Inn is shown to be ugly. Characteristic of the Bowery. Three curved steps before a flaking blue door. The tower was built of recovered panels of all widths and hues, paved into walls. Half-eaten shells from the hot-chestnut salespeople were dispersed haphazardly to keep the wild dogs at bay. Squished fruit and straw and coal dust and snowflakes all compressed.
Entering the saloon was different. The fervor exploded. On a little, elevated stage, a black violinist—skin glistening with sweat—fiddled out a reel as if taught to by the devil. It was fascinating. The walls and rafters shone like ivory, and atop the smoothed floor was a wide metal candelabra crowded with raging night lights. Performers spun around the dance floor. Spot lost his breath in the air of circulated hullabaloo and happiness.
An intoxicated Canadian fisherman, having not yet regained his land legs, was trying a country jig and falling in hysterics when he stumbled over his boots. A handful of Irish, both men and women, danced like it was their destiny. He was dressed in the colors of a kaleidoscope, finishing an exhausting day’s labor with an exhausting show. Spot quickly found the saloon’s real moneymaker as the wine and spirit shelves at the other side of the inn, gangsters and police officers drooped against the counter, faces heated with alcohol and merriment. A Cuban man with cinnamon-smelling ale walked by, moving his shoulders to the music. People of every background encircled Spot, including a Native American sailor with braided hair and a long coat fastened over rawhide pants. Many customers twirled about with shoes piercing the blissful beats. The rest observed, spellbound.
One reclined, holding court.
It turned out Colm wasn’t the Tracey in question that evening. His profligate brother, who was six years Colm’s junior, Cian Tracey, had secured the saloon’s only wooden pew and was bordered by his two Enginemen friends. Men whom Spot had once given polite ‘hello’s’ to when he noticed their red flannel and axes swinging from belts. Cian sat with a cigarette between his lips, a pint of whiskey in his hand, merrily singing along with other patrons to an ear-rattling chant.
“In old New York, in old New York, the peach crop’s always fine,” the voices sang, rattling Spot’s ears as he meandered his way further into the hellish bar.
Cian’s eyes were tired green, something remarkable amidst the glow of the kerosine, and they squinted cannily as a pretty serving girl poured a generous allotment of whiskey into his near-empty tumbler.
“They’re sweet and fair and on the square. The maids of Manhattan for mine!”
A twenty-year-old woman sat on his fellow firedog’s lap, eyes trained on her shoes. The rabbit’s hand crept steadily up her bodice while he held her around the waist with the other arm. The position cried ownership and danger under a tinny layer of desire. A few people studied the scene sacredly as if expecting a plague. The image painted Spot a picture, vibrant as if it had been sketched in the Times. Cian paid no mind to his friend’s actions. He was too busy petting the face of the serving girl, who seemed to melt under his touch.
Cian’s mad as a morphine fiend, Spot thought.
His next idea was—indeed—not careful nor very measured. It was more of a solution and went sideways, as most half-baked plans do.
“I’d rather drop dead than organize a strike, mister,” the olive-skinned girl said to the fireman who held her captive by the wrist like she was a newborn doe.
She wore a red gingham evening gown of inexpensive cotton and wore her voluminous dark hair back with a white scarf. Her accent rang out sharp and markedly foreign—Italian, by the sound of it. She hadn’t been in Manhattan long.
But she didn’t look to be a factory rabble-rouser either.
Spot couldn’t comprehend the nature that lived in dead rabbits like Cian or Colm Tracey. The urge to ravage something beautiful into rags and you have won a bloody-rare carnal conquest solely of your design and destroyed what used to be in-tact. Now and then, Spot thought it was a mechanical performance. Inhuman cruelty that left marks on Kate Moore’s body. On other occasions, Spot thought, it was a profane need that drove him to cut NELLIE CONLON, EMILY CONLON, and THOMAS CONLON into the wall beneath his bed in the family flat. Something to say he was there, that he had lived. Gut the sorrow. Spot had been so spiteful with that switchblade, speared at the wall like it was some mortal enemy. Perhaps that characteristic of malevolent ruin is supernatural, or maybe it is entirely natural.
Spot didn’t dwell on it at that moment.
“I wouldn’t even know how to lead a strike.” The girl’s shoes dithered side to side when she felt Cian’s hand on her wrist. She froze, debating whether to give Cian a brief claim of her hand or tear it free. “I’m a good girl, an honest worker. You’ve got me confused for someone else.”
“I see you clear as day.” An arrogant glow ignited Cian’s black Irish features, and his squared jaw twitched in amusement, tawny skin painted rosy by the lamplight. He looked like a hunting dog grooming himself at the fireside. “However, your accent, love. They tell me an Italian lass is causin’ trouble at their mills, and you sure fit that description.”
Her chin wobbled. “Papa won’t let me organize. Not even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’m not the girl you’re looking for. I beg you. I’ve never even been to a picket line.”
“How’s about you and me have a little chat upstairs, see if you start to remember anythin’ useful once I relax ya?” Cian’s fellow fireman asked with a chuckle.
“Leave her alone,” Spot said.
Cian’s smirk curdled. Several of the closer dancing couples wound to a slow. No one glanced at Cian, but it was evident to Spot that their ears had all prickled toward him. The violinist continued his tune, moving his arm like a saw.
“Little Conlon,” Cian greeted him warmly. He didn’t relinquish the girl’s wrist. “Didn’t your father tell you to stay out of grown-ups affairs?”
“Damn, my father.”
The other firedogs swapped greedy looks. Spot didn’t know who they were. One was skinny and wolfish, almost canine—American by his swagger. The other was broad-shouldered and Bavarian, eyes as wide as saucers, with arms fit to break rocks.
“’ Damn my father,’ he says,” Cian reflected. “’ Twas Dominick Conlon himself who said the same thing not too long ago.”
He compellingly launched the girl’s wrist from his grasp, and she stumbled backward with a frightened scream. The musician paused mid-play. The other dancing couples paused, too, drawing air into their chests like they were drowning.
Cian’s light jade eyes looked Spot over. “Plenty o’ hot-blooded lunans to go around, eh kid?”
“I have to talk to you.”
“Well, you ain’t no reporter, and you ain’t no copper like your pa, so I don’t see why you gotta make a song and dance.” Cian’s voice was hoarse, and Spot had to lean forward to hear him as the music started again. He smiled at the younger Conlon, dimples handsomely prominent and promising boyish tomfoolery.
Spot let the remark roll off him.
“Go,” Spot said, looking at the young woman. “While you still can.”
She tore out of the saloon as if hell was at her heels. It left Spot feeling fortunate to know that at least one person would have a happy ending that night.
“Maybe you’ll focus better now,” Spot added.
This is a mistake, Spot could hear somewhere in his mind. Again.
Cian rose to his feet. His two firedogs did so in the suits. The one who looked like an ancient mangy wolf was almost snarling at Spot, and the sturdy Bavarian partner gazed voraciously at the bones in Spot’s hands. Cian held them at bay by his mere composure.
“The river’s cold tonight, ain’t it?” The Bavarian asked his boss.
“Ain’t it always,” Cian answered nonchalantly. “But this sprat here’s a damn good swimmer. Like his pa.”
The barkeep, who Spot shot a curious stare, was a gypsy. About fifty years old, with a greyish mane and mustache. His eyes scorched luminously, a blunt scar imprinted down the middle. Spot made eye contact, and the barkeep shook his head. After noting a slight but striking likeness of Mihai Kina, Spot wondered if there was any relation. Then he said the two religious medals decorating Cian’s neck and the singular ring through his ear were customs of many sailors. A tattoo of a bare-chested mermaid on his bicep, identical to the one Muggs had. Before Spot could focus on something else, anything to settle himself, he couldn’t stop the sentence from falling out of his mouth.
“This is your lay, ain’t it?”
Cian licked his lips once.
“You’re working for Burke, too,” Spot decided. “Why am I even surprised? God, it’s obvious.”
“I ain’t workin’ for no one,” Cian spat in his thick Lower East Side accent, “but sure, I savvy who he is. Burke doesn’t like his girls stirrin’ up trouble. And breakin’ strikes and tossin’ ungrateful bitches in the Tombs ain’t much of a lay, is it?”
“Ungrateful bitches—that’s bullshit. How much do you get for each innocent girl’s head you crack?”
“’ Course they’re ‘innocent girls’ to little molly-boys in lodging houses. The girls are fire-starting whores. And I’m called to put them out.”
Running the math in his mind, Spot quickly considered the financial benefits. Swindling coins from pimps and unlicensed saloons didn’t compare to the money Burke would pay to ensure his workers never picket again. Spot considered how many other firefighters and police were in on Burke’s game, and he felt slightly sick.
“Rich man like Burke would allow the going rate for strike-breaking to be high,” Spot pondered aloud. “Easy money, too. But if you captured the dame leading the strike? How much is she worth? Three or four hundred? Maybe higher if she’s as persistent as they say? You’d be able to retire early.”
“This ain’t doin’ much in the way of conversation, is it, Cian?” the wolfish fireman asked.
“He’s more of a thinker, this one,” Cian mumbled in a low voice, never taking his devilish eyes off Spot. “And bold as Agamemnon.” Taking Spot’s upper arm, a little forcefully for Spot’s liking, Cian began pulling him toward the bar. “Drink with me, Little Conlon. I’ll buy you a pint. And a tumble with any bloss you fancy if you’re feeling leery. You look as though you’ve been at sea a stretch too long, my boy.”
Spot had awoken a sleeping giant. The veins in Cian’s neck pulsed. Sensible attendees snuck off the floor while the gangsters along the walls snickered morosely. Wagering with the enginemen and sailors whether Spot would be given a slow or quick death that night.
“I want to know more about Nell Anderson’s role with Burke’s striking workers. I figure your brother’s been hired out as muscle. And you two don’t make a move without each other.”
The fireman only smirked, which irritated Spot.
“You oughta be in a different uniform,” Spot proclaimed.
“Yeah?” Cian asked, a smirk spreading.
“Ain’t the King’s dragoons the ones who molested poor emigrant girls? If I didn’t know better, I’d mistake you for one of that lot.”
Something changed in Cian’s face. Spot’s smug toss of an insult comparing an already mad man to his sworn adversary of English variety had sealed his fate.
“I like you fine, Little Conlon,” Cian decreed at length. “But you better mouse it if you want to keep your teeth in your mouth. That’s as fair a warning as you’ll get tonight.” Then, as an afterthought, and with a chuckle, he added, “I’m for the stationhouse. Buy him a round, Franz, if you want to be charitable.”
The Bavarian grinned, clearly intending to pummel Spot for interrupting his evening with the unwilling Italian girl. Spot’s stomach was in knots, a disturbing feeling.
“Outside,” Franz said, loud enough for the other patrons to hear. “If you think you’re so tough. Not a Miss Nancy like I think y’are.”
Spot stuck out his chest and plastered on a severe expression, following Franz outside. Cian headed in the other direction with a fellow engineman, striking a Lucifer and lighting a cigar.
“I ain’t looking for a fight—” Spot tried, but all eyes were now on the two of them.
Whipping his apron over his shoulder, the barkeep quirked his brow at Spot. “Godspeed,” he whispered. “Don’t turn your back on him. Franz fights fair, but he ain’t stupid.”
Spot touched his cap in return, realizing the barkeep for an ally. All around them, people mumbled and stared. A flock of newsboys who’d just arrived noiselessly turned on their heels and walked out on instinct.
Cian was a fireman and therein laid the trouble. He was worshiped as much as Colm. It didn’t matter how twisted they were. And if any of his men were messed with, there would be hell to pay.
The night chill chewed on Spot’s nose, and he smelled the rubbery trace of charcoal fires in metal drums around which people shivered. Close by, the other firefighters and the gangsters filtered out alongside the more violent of the roundsmen, eager to witness Hercules fight Cerberus.
The onlookers made an extended circle. Franz, standing a reasonable distance away, looked sturdier than a bull. He took a sip from a copper’s pint. Then he pulled a penknife from inside his coat.
Spot solemnly debated slipping away in the chaos. But Franz wasn’t going to back down. Not anytime soon. Spot would instead catch a knife to the throat after getting in a few good hooks than get a knife to the groin tomorrow for running like a coward. His adrenaline was pumping.
Spot Conlon wasn’t in Franz’s weight class by a long shot. A good number of the firedogs were as significant as buffalos. Sure, Spot was outnumbered by the scores of Cian’s men lined up to watch the sport. Franz was to do the honors of painting the Bowery with Spot’s blood. But the young man had one ace up his sleeve.
Spot Conlon was a damn good learner. And Muggs Tracey made for a damn good teacher.
A year after Emily died, Muggs began training Spot in street brawling—which wasn’t asked for, granted—by sporadically landing blows to Spot’s torso. Spot reviled him for it. He was grief-stricken and malnourished and furious, and he used to hit Muggs back like a wild animal with kicks and bites and scratches. Years passed until Spot discovered he was only slightly banged up from these interims of ‘education.’
After years of fighting off a more prominent and meaner opponent, Spot Conlon had become an expert in every dirty technique on the list.
Maybe that’s what Muggs had intended, Spot realized.
As a result, Spot boxed like a madman when pushed too far. And Cian had left him in a mighty hot temper.
Spot edged cautiously to the side and had his back to the fire escape, which got a scoff out of Franz. Without taking his eyes off the more prominent man, Spot unthinkingly grabbed a rusted pipe from the ground.
“Five bits on the kid,” a voice rang out to Spot’s right.
“I’m twenty,” Spot growled, cursing his youthful face. “I ain’t—”
His sentence was cut short.
Franz ran with his upper body hunched forward, brandishing the shiv furtively. Spot ducked, almost sliding on oily corn husks, but righted himself quickly, whirling with his grasp on the crude pipe, his knuckles whitening. The pipe was as long as one of Franz’s arms, and the man glared at Spot as he dodged out of the way.
Don’t stop. Franz had more force but less stamina than Spot, as demonstrated by the initial attack. He’ll get careless if you get him dizzy.
Roaring, he lunged at the young man. Spot stood his ground and then leaped to safety, bending under a swing of Franz’s knife. Spot wobbled, still managing to whirl the pipe, hitting Franz’s thigh with the sharper end.
He dispersed, clapping at the sight of bloodshed. Franz charged, spit flying. He wound his knife at Spot again, meeting Spot’s pipe in defense with a clang each time. Franz dove this time, grabbing the pipe with his less dominant hand and nearly dislocating Spot’s shoulder from the force of the pull.
Spot wouldn’t give it up, though. Finally, he’d gotten the pipe back and swung desperately, landing a fierce blow to Franz’s chest. The pipe bent at that odd angle, and Spot lost his grip. The thing clattered to the ground.
The hit didn’t do much to slow Franz. He grunted, spinning the shiv through his fingers. Jeers rang out at the sight of Spot losing his defense, a low laugh from the American-born fireman.
“Start thinking of last words, kid,” Franz sneered.
Spot was running out of options. After a demented shout, he launched his body against Franz’s.
The man’s shiv went sailing for Spot’s collar. Spot caught the arm quickly, keeping it away from his face as his other hand pushed against Franz’s shoulder. Franz’s knife found a new target and positioned itself toward Spot’s crotch.
Spot held the arm back with all his might, throwing a right hook with his other fist and hitting Franz’s jaw with a sickening pop.
Franz shrieked and let go of the shiv. Spot figured he’d shattered bone.
His victory was short-lived. Spot’s face was pounded into Franz’s shoulder. Seeing the bruise forming on the skin of the jawbone, the two of them connected in a horrid tango.
Spot threw back his head. Franz moved to bite his nose, failing to do so when Spot banged his head against Franz’s. They wrestled for a little longer, ferocious cheers going ignored. That’s when Franz’s elbow crashed into Spot’s stomach with rapid, ruthless force. It temporarily debilitated Spot, allowing for a knee to Spot’s ribs.
Stars flooded Spot’s vision like he’d been launched into space, and he was suddenly sitting on the cold, sludge-covered ground.
Winded, Spot scrambled to push himself up. One of his nostrils was bleeding, and there was a ringing in his left ear. He felt as if a noose had tightened around his neck. But he couldn’t see Franz, wondering if he’d gone to retrieve the fallen shiv. Nearby yells fluctuated from On your feet, kid! Get that knife and slice him to ribbons!
Spot staggered upwards.
The American fireman tossed the shiv to Franz. Grasping it tightly, Franz advanced toward Spot. He could taste the blood from his split lip pouring into his mouth as if remembering for the first time in his youth that he wasn’t immortal.
You would manage to get yourself killed in the Bowery, Spot admonished himself, half-offended.
He could barely make out the voice continuing to yell, “Don’t turn your back on him!”
It took Spot a moment to puzzle the meaning.
If this was the end of him, defenseless and near deaf in one ear, Spot had to give it one last try. Recoiling, Spot edged backward from the fireman. He forced his body to shiver and his bleeding mouth to quiver. His entire stance became a lifeless appeal for mercy. Spot mimicked a cat with its backup, amused Franz as if Spot were counting on them.
Just a little further.
“You scared of me?” he crooned, coming closer.
Carefully, Spot backed up to the grimy brick side of the saloon. Spot couldn’t corner Franz, not in this position, not with that shiv in the man’s hand.
But he did his best.
“Please, stay back. I lost, okay?” Holding up his arms, Spot hid behind them like armor.
Almost there.
Franz bayed with mirth. He wanted Spot to plead. He wanted Spot to cower like the girl on Cian’s lap. Helpless and begging for mercy. It was disgusting.
“Oh, but we’re just getting started.”
Closer.
Spot pressed his body against the brick. He slid down it, protecting his arms over his face like a child, retracting his hands inside the sleeves. He didn’t know if the plan would work. He knew if it didn’t, and he’d been wrong in his presumption, then at least his suffering would be over quickly.
Dear God, if I should perish here, don’t let Kate or Muggs find out I went this way.
Boots chomped on the slush next to him.
A crash erupted. Something like a window closing blared above Spot. A screech rang out, a distorted, tormented racket that stabbed Spot’s brain like a bayonet.
Throwing his body out of the way, Spot’s limbs hit a patch of ice.
Franz wasn’t so lucky.
He was lying prone in the snow. Silence. Onlookers flew around, scurrying like rats. A girl was crying, her arm supported by her dance partner, who looked at the scene in engrossed revulsion. After they broke away from the crowd, Spot clocked the fireman who’d been fit to maim him just as the flash of blood seeped around his head in the snow.
Spot shifted his eyes. The American fireman, with the wolf-like features, lunged forward to help his fallen friend.
But it was too late. Spot noticed the fractured skull, the dark ruby pouring from it like a river.
Spot wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, fighting hard to stop from gagging. Stumbling upwards, he lifted his gaze to the top of the fire escape where the giant ship’s anchor had been dropped. It was empty and shrouded in darkness. The wind blew snowflakes around the railing. As an afterthought, giving a wild yell, the wolfish fireman charged back into the saloon, intending to get revenge against any gypsy in the joint.
No one stopped him. But Spot was confident any gypsy that had been in attendance was long gone by then. The empty fire escape and the sound of the window shutting served as a testament to the peaceful rage of that cohort. Its ingenuity and its determination.
“I’d get lost if I were you,” the barkeep mumbled.
Spot didn’t have to turn around to know he was close behind. Slowly and disconcerted, he looked over his shoulder.
“Could say the same for you,” Spot replied, breathless. “Considering you just spared my hide.”
“That’s gospel.” The scar along the bridge of his nose had softened.
Spot looked back to where Franz landed in the mud, body stiff, another engineman shouting at the police for help. Two of the coated coppers took off. Franz didn’t appear to be breathing. His right foot spasmed for a moment—the vulgar signs of a dying man.
“There’ll be consequences sooner rather than later,” Spot understood. “A Tammany fireman beaten at a gypsy saloon? A handful of torches and pitchforks if we’re optimists. An all-out insurrection, God forbid. The Bowery will see a very dark night.”
“Maybe not.”
“You reckon so?”
“No,” he replied, pulling his coat tighter. “They gotta find the assassin first. Once the murderer is arrested, many will see a very peaceful night.”
Spot felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Many. He meant his people. Numerous cogs of profound compassion and warm friendship turned like a gentle machine in his community, which sadly was in the Bowery. A machine he’d built, re-constructed, and fought to uphold.
“You see the murderer, don’t you?” he questioned.
Spot exhaled slowly, his breath visible, glaring at the barkeep. His silver hair, his wrinkled face now slack and passive, his spotless knit coat, and his tan skin. Spot’s stomach propelled into a nervous spin.
“No. I can’t let you—"
“I don’t need your damn permission to do anything.”
“How can you just…?” Spot didn’t understand. “Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Riggs’,” he replied, shrugging. “And I have a goddaughter in that factory, the one you mentioned. She had to quit several months back, having gotten in trouble with the father of her child being a fallen fireman. I wanted to slip a little arsenic in his drink, but then you came…thank the lord you’re a decent scrapper.” He gave Spot a weary wink. “Come on. Before I change my mind, sell it, now, young man. Like the goriest headline you’ve ever read.”
Spot tentatively took his arm, which was hard and muscled despite his age.
Like that of an old pirate.
Spot detained him, though not as brutally as he made it look, and threw him against the railing of the fire escape. It must’ve looked genuine on Spot’s end and mortifying on the barkeep’s. Spot grabbed him by the lapels without much force.
“Someone fetch a roundsman. Looks like we found the killer,” Spot yelled.
Everyone looked at the scene.
“And you were once the best newsie in New York?” the barkeep jeered. He stepped on one of Spot’s boots encouragingly.
Spot shoved him onto an icy step.
“Confess,” Spot roared.
“Is that meant to scare me?”
Spot knew he was soft-hearted when he felt the pang of fault in his chest, wanting nothing more than to implore the barkeep to run. Wishing for a happier occasion, one where he could walk into the river and sink below the waves.
“You’ll find yourself on a chain gang at Sing-Sing faster than you can spit.”
The barkeep’s hoot reverberated off the alley. “Go chase yourself.”
Winding up, Spot backhanded him into the snow.
A roundsman had arrived by then and pulled out a set of handcuffs. The barkeep kept quiet, giving Spot a subtle nod as his hands were locked with the metal. He was taken by the roundsman away from the bystanders.
In his bed later that night, alone, Spot stared at his words in the leather-bound journal, tasting blood in his mouth again. He looked at his penmanship, infecting the pages like a disease, scribbling. The killer admitted to dropping the anchor, though he saved my life. Spot lets the taste of blood linger to ignore the taste of guilt.
It wasn’t as potent.
Brooklyn, New York
Spot practically fell through the lodging house's back entrance, finding Mary lounging on a chair in the kitchen with a tray of her famous sticky cinnamon rolls, drinking a little tumbler of rum as she sifted through a picture book of ancient art. Her hair was damp and messily brushed out as best it could be, her middle part starting to fall out of place as it dried, and she looked skinnier than Spot remembered that day. He ran through a list of what could be bothering her. But before he landed on anything concrete, she looked over at him and opened her mouth as if to speak, yet she came up empty once she realized who it was. Spot recognized the expression on her face as one he’d come to expect from most people in the past few weeks.
Not bothering to fill in the empty silence, Spot dug around for Mary’s hemp salve, sat in the opposite chair and rubbed a dollop on his shoulder beneath his shirt.
“I’m getting too old for this,” Spot said to the grey-haired woman across from him.
Mary’s eyes drew from her book to Spot in a focused but calm once-over, like a birder studying a rare dove from a branch or a nun leaning over her prayer book. She slumped forward, folding her arms on the table and letting her chin rest atop them, her lips forming into a loose pout. She trailed her bony fingers to Spot’s hand and tapped it briefly.
“And you think I’m not?” she asked, amused.
“No,” Spot acknowledged.
“Whatever it is that’s bothering you—is it worth the trouble?”
“It is.”
“Then you must carry on.” Her pale eyes looked at the bruise on Spot’s jaw, close to his bottom lip and chin. The new one. The one that tipped her off to what he’d been doing that evening. Spot didn’t try to hide it—her stare was too forgiving to make him flinch.
“It’s hard to carry on when you’re not sure where you’re going.”
“Yes,” Mary agreed. “You make it look easy, Thomas. Once your mind is set on something…”
Spot allowed his eyes to close as he processed that remark.
His mind slipped back to Riggs’ gypsy friend—the barkeep, Max Lovell—and he knew that poor soul wouldn’t rest so easy that night. He’d spend many nights in jail before Spot could set it right. If Spot could set it right, that is. Spot remembered being an errant newsboy before staying in the lodging house on the many occasions he’d run away from home. He was too afraid to sleep because of how badly his bones ached, the feeling of sinking in loneliness and being lost. He desperately wanted to get to the bottom of Nell Anderson’s cryptic message. To prove the girl wasn’t Kate, that there had been a mistake, a mix-up. To breathe easy again. The world had begun to suffocate him recently.
The sensation of Mary’s warm, wrinkled hand on his brought him back to the present. Her fingertips were smooth, and her nails tickled, dragging them in soothing circles on Spot’s skin like tiny figure skates. “You have visitors in the parlor,” she whispered without elaboration. “I suggest you attend to them before anyone else does. I do believe they’ve been imbibing.”
Spot didn’t know how long he’d sat at the kitchen table in thought, long after Mary had bid him goodnight with a light kiss to his head. Perhaps he was still dazed from the beating he’d taken from Franz—the now corpse being taken to the morgue. When he glanced at the old clock on the hearth, he noticed how dark the kitchen had gotten now that Mary’s candle had gone out.
Spot heaved as he got up and went into the dimly lit parlor, dropping once more onto the sofa.
“There he is.” Lion Valentino’s voice made Spot’s heart flutter unnaturally like he’d come face-to-face with an actual lion. “The Messiah rose from the dead quicker than you found us.”
“Rough day?” Cards posed the question without looking up from the newspaper where his nose was buried.
Next to him, Lion struck a match and lit a hand-rolled cigarette behind cupped hands. Spot was too exhausted to tell him to step outside or, at the very least, open a window. He had no idea why the two had dropped by the lodging house—to see him, presumably. But Spot was in no mood for company, not when Kate was due to walk through that front door any moment.
“You could say,” Spot mumbled, weary legs spread wide on the sofa. “My head’s aching somethin’ awful.”
Cards seemed fit to respond when Kate interrupted the conversation, strolling through the door as if on cue, bringing a strong, cold wind.
“Tom,” she hummed, seeing the trademark mess of dirty blonde hair visible over the back of the sofa.
She hurriedly shrugged off her coat and draped herself in his open lap as if it were natural. Her fingers grasped eagerly around the fabric of his shirt, meeting his eyes with a frown. It was evident to Spot that she’d been drinking, too, but wasn’t yet drunk. “How come you didn’t meet up with us?”
“I had work, love, I told ya,” Spot muttered, his calloused hand reaching around to scratch her back softly.
“I dare say I missed you,” she feigned a dramatic English accent, moving to get more comfortable in his lap, paying no mind to the low chuckles the two young men behind her gave.
Spot smiled.
“Did you? You were among loads of friends, but you missed me?” He asked teasingly, reaching up to hold her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb.
Kate nodded, holding a long, genuine gaze and snapping back to her normal voice. “’ Course, Tom.”
More drunken chuckles went ignored.
“I still do.” She gave his shirt a firm yank for emphasis. “And yet you’re right here.”
“Quandary.” Spot exhaled, pressing a kiss to her chin. “Go ahead up. I’ll be there in a while. You must be exhausted.”
Kate smiled at the comfort, leaning in to plant a quick kiss of appreciation on his lips.
“Deal.” She sprang off his lap, energetically hopping up the steps despite her night of drinking. She turned on the landing, offering a ridiculous curtsey to Lion and Cards. “Good evening, my wicked highwaymen.”
“No need to curtsey for the likes of us, Moore,” Cards waved her off with a glimmer in his eye.
Lion smirked, looking from Spot to the wild-haired whisp on the stairs.
“I was trying to be ironic,” was all Kate said before the boys heard the distant open and close of Spot’s bedroom door.
Spot forced himself to stand with a grunt, his body sore from the fight.
“She’ll be the sainted death of me, I think,” he grumbled, half in jest, as he folded Kate’s coat over his arm. “Christ, I’m exhausted.”
“Then have her ride you,” Lion proposed coolly around the cigarette in his mouth, striking another match lazily and watching it go out.
Spot couldn’t help but let out a husky laugh. “No.”
“No?” Cards spoke up, dark eyes darting up from the pages of the newspaper.
Spot looked at him, thrown off by his inquisitive tone.
“We don’t—it’s not like that.”
“She doesn’t ride you, Conlon?” Lion jeered, a curious grin starting to materialize on his face.
Spot blinked. “Not really…”
“That’s alright.” Cards refrained from teasing and instead tried to offer advice. “Give her your tongue. It doesn’t take much work. Then she can do the same for you.”
Spot moved hesitantly on his heels, shrugging.
Card's smile faded. “For pity’s sake, tell me you’ve at least done that—"
“We haven’t had…intercourse yet.”
“What?”
“She isn’t—” Spot’s words were interrupted by the roar of Lion’s laughter.
“Hang on, hang on. You’re tellin’ me,” Lion pulled the cigarette from his mouth, holding it between two fingers, “that hellcat moans your Christian name, sleeps next to you every night, but she ain’t opening her legs?”
Hot scarlet painted the hollows of Spot’s cheeks. “It’s not like that…”
Lion barked another round of laughter, hitting Cards, who was now quietly snickering.
“Spot, your girl is a slum siren,” Lion scoffed, giving Spot a sardonic smirk before drawing in another inhalation of smoke.
Spot’s flush intensified. “I told you she doesn’t like that name.”
“But she sorta is one, Conlon,” Cards agreed, his teasing grin more understated but visible. “She’s got you flogged.”
“Well, no, we compromise—” Spot attempted to assert, but Lion wouldn’t hear of it.
“Yeah, so did Missouri. You’re always obeyin’ her every command,” he noted, making Spot freeze. “She’s gotta be givin’ you something.”
As he processed the remark, Spot gave another slow exhale.
“I won’t rush her. It’s not right.”
“You ain’t rushin’ her.” Cards set down the newspaper, eyeing the younger man soberly. “You’re her man, and you have just as much say. She can speak for herself, can’t she?”
Spot nodded.
“Right. If she doesn’t like somethin’, she’ll tell you. Doesn’t mean you gotta treat her like a nun.”
“You show her a good time. But make sure she savvies you’re in charge,” Lion added, a cloud of smoke trailing his words.
Spot’s hand traveled doubtfully through his hair. “I could never take charge of her.”
“You could fix that.”
Spot’s eyebrows shot up at Cards’ words, his arm dropping to his side in a beat of disbelief. “What does that mean exactly?”
“All’s I’m saying is,” Lion went on, “If you ain’t givin’ it to her, chances are someone else is.”
Cards nodded. “Aye, he’s right.”
Spot’s gaze swung between the two young men. Cards’ eyes were honest, and Lion’s eyes were expectant. Spot’s overworked mind ran the options over, knowing he wasn’t forthcoming enough, knowing he’d do anything for Kate, trusting both Lion and Cards with his life, and knowing Kate would never betray him like that.
“No…she wouldn’t.” Spot said tiredly, the words falling out of his mouth like molasses but decidedly.
Lion’s mouth broke into a complete smirk. “If you’re so sure.” He got his feet quickly, leaning over to snuff his cigarette in a ceramic cup on the mantel. “Best go to her then, just in case.”
Cards’ eyebrows knit together. “And sleep?”
“Sure, sleep,” the Italian boy said, running a hand through his hair like an animal preening itself. He turned to Spot. “Since you don’t do nothin’ else up there. I never took you for a Christian.”
“Go home,” Spot ordered, his eyes drooping with lack of sleep.
“You’re adorable,” Lion said fondly. He nodded to Cards and then looked back at Spot. “Ms. Mary was kind enough to give us bunks for the night. We’re lodging with you.”
Spot leaned back, trying to understand why Mary would allow two drunk and disorderly degenerates under her pristine roof, but for some reason, all Spot could mumble was, “Oh, shit.”
“Oh, shit,” Muggs hissed with a wince as Julia dabbed at the last cut to his shoulder. She folded the cloth over again to dry the water away. Slowly, he felt his body relax. “Easy.”
“You’re much too dramatic,” Julia said calmly, cupping his face in her tiny hand, forcing his gaze to hers. She wrang out the cloth in a bowl on the table. Then she unbuttoned Muggs’ torn shirt the rest of the way, pulling it from his torso and off his arms. She came around to the other side, facing him. “And not telling me how you got these marks isn’t winning you any favors either.”
Muggs sat on a kitchen chair, his long legs sprawled before him. He grabbed her wrist as she washed another cut, preventing her hand from touching it, though he wanted nothing more than to feel her. “You don’t gotta clean me up,” he said, his jaw clenching.
He was deeply aware of their position, with him sitting and her above him. Their legs are touching. The soft herbal scent of her soap on his newly washed skin. The sumptuous pout of his slum siren’s mouth.
Muggs felt a rush of warmth. Longing grabbed him in a death grip. Squeezing. Coaxing him closer. Making it hard for him to remember she had a job to do.
The odd flood of emotions of the past week was still too fresh. Muggs wanted to get Julia into bed and forget what occurred at Lucifer’s Oyster Saloon.
He leaned toward her. Their mouths were separated by mere inches. He could almost hear her heartbeat. Julia’s lips parted, beckoning.
Muggs could nearly taste her tongue. But he pulled back, restraining himself. “Seriously, I can do the rest myself.”
Julia frowned. Blue eyes examined his face. “I thought you wanted…?” Then her eyes fell, and the telling smile that overtook her mouth gave Muggs goosebumps. “I know you do,” she said, touching his thigh. The muscle stiffened instinctively. Her delicate palm felt like fire through his trousers' cotton, resting a few inches away from where he wanted it badly. “Let me,” she whispered.
Her hand slipped around his thigh, dropping closer. His heart pounded. He could almost feel her rubbing him. The long, hard pull of her soft, porcelain hand. He locked his jaw, bracing himself.
Muggs was about to argue when she added, “I want you.”
He looked at her, observing the cherry flush in her cheeks. “I don’t wanna hurt you again,” he said suddenly.
Julia’s eyes softened with a passion that made his chest seize. “You won’t.”
She brushed the crotch of his trousers with her fingers, and he groaned, shutting his eyes as a hot wave of desire hit him. A mischievous smile spread across her face. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to endure me caressing you.” She leaned closer to him, pressing her mouth on his jaw and neck. Right by his ear. “And undressing you.”
Muggs couldn’t compose himself any longer. Releasing her wrist, he turned his head to capture her lips with his and groaned into her mouth when her hand finally circled him. Relief tore through him.
Christ, he loved her lips. They were soft and tasted like warm sugar. His tongue slipped past her lips in long, languorous lashes, taking time to enjoy and investigate. He didn’t need to breathe, he decided.
Her panting breaths pushed him. So did the taunting stroke of her hand. The cotton was killing him. He wanted nothing separating them.
Muggs leaned back again, breaking the kiss. The subsequent whimpers of disapproval made him smirk. Julia looked like a cat who had just had her bowl taken from her. Muggs got to his feet. Julia moved to protest, wondering where he was going to go, but closed her mouth when he started to undo his belt.
Julia didn’t bother to hide her anticipation as he removed his trousers, consuming with her eyes as he stood in his underwear, her gaze wandering down his torso. The brash yearning in her eyes made it difficult for him to focus. A reflexive lick of her lips made Muggs feel dizzy.
He turned slightly, and her gaze lingered on his backside, skin barely visible through the long white underwear. Her eyebrows knit together. “What’s that tattoo?”
“Oh, that?” Muggs asked, pointing to a tattooed name in small print on the back of his left bicep. Nikolai. “It’s my brother’s name. At birth. Got it after he died.”
Julia nodded. “I’ve never noticed it. And I know most of your tattoos.”
“You ain’t been lookin’ close enough.” He grinned.
She made a face. “May I look?”
Muggs moved closer, his muscles jumping when he felt the soft pad of her finger tracing several designs on his back, stopping at the intricate swirls of a snake and then over to a half-naked mermaid. “A siren,” Julia said, then rolled her eyes. “With her tits out.” A wry smile played on her lips. “Of course.”
“Sinful girl,” Muggs scolded, “sayin’ ‘tits’ like she ain’t a Fifth Avenue socialite.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Not that I recall,” he said firmly. He felt like he would detonate from how she studied his skin.
“Did any of these hurt?”
“No.” Scorching needles pressed under the skin weren’t nearly as unbearable as what Julia was doing to him. “Ain’t no pain in what you want.”
Slowing his breath, Muggs sat on the sofa's edge and moved Julia around to stand before him. He would do the studying now. He undid buttons and strings until she could manage the rest independently.
Julia smiled a little. “Just what do you want, Matthew Tracey?”
“Strip for me,” he instructed with a devilish glint in his green eyes. “Slow-like.”
A blush crept to her cheeks, but Julia happily did as he said. Item by item, she eliminated her apparel, holding his fiery gaze.
Muggs grew more restless every time a piece of clothing hit the floorboards—shawl, hair scarf, boots, stockings. When she reached her blouse, she’d lessened her pace. Bit by bit, she lifted her skirt and her legs. Past her knees and to her thighs, she was revealing her white linen drawers.
Muggs’ muscles strained, breathing raggedly as his eyes dragged down her body. She teased and taunted with the skirt until he made a noise that was half-pained, half-growl. He wanted to rip the blasted skirt off her. She shimmied out of her blouse, and Muggs was fighting his hand from reaching out to touch her. He could see the curve of her breasts.
Julia froze, and Muggs forgot how to breathe, remembering again when the chemise was discarded entirely, her corset alongside it—revealing beautiful, opulent breasts. Her drawers followed with no hesitation. She stood there, naked and flawless, before him. The last few beams of sunshine sifted through the single window, casting a bronze, hot shine over her.
She was incredible. A petite, tight model of womanliness. Long currents of glossy blonde hair poured around her shoulders. Sinewy legs, rounded hips, a slender waist, breasts that made Muggs want to bury his face in them, tied up in the most perfect, milky-smooth skin he’d ever touched.
“Come ‘ere,” he demanded, not realizing how forceful it sounded. It was coarse with a strength he reserved for the rabbits he dealt with in the barrooms and boxing rings.
She obeyed, drawing closer until she stood before him. He could tell she was hesitant, but he remained steadfast, giving her a look that mirrored concern. “I gotta make sure it ain’t gonna hurt again.”
Julia stared at him in confusion. “How?”
Muggs nodded. “Lay down,” he said, unable to stop himself from sliding his hand over the velvety curve of her hip, “let me look.”
Her eyes broadened, then glowed with eagerness.
She reclined on the sofa, an erotic tableau of a nymph.
Muggs hovered over her, bruising his lips against her mouth, flicking his tongue as he trailed along her jaw to her ear. He moved to her neck, burying his face in the shiny smoothness of her hair, the thick, blonde locks sweet with rosewater.
She writhed beneath him, and he ached to be skin to skin, but he continued to torture himself. She was adorning every inch of her China-doll skin with his mouth and tongue—her collar bones, her forearms, her fingers, her breasts. He stayed there a moment, licking and sucking, worshipping her nipple between his teeth and tongue until she tilted her head and whined in impatience.
He moved to her waist, her hips, and down her thighs. Her sounds intoxicated him, stirring every animal instinct.
Julia was trembling. Muggs grew hotter, nudging her legs wider apart, placing them over his shoulders as he kissed her thighs. He traced patterns with his tongue on her inner thigh. Then he exhaled teasingly over her until she quivered again, whimpering his name again.
“Atta girl,” he whispered, pursing his lips and licking them as he fought to take things slow.
She made an apprehensive noise but never once in protest. She was shaking. Keeping his eyes on hers, he dragged his tongue against her in the softest, lightest way. Julia bucked at the sensation, but he only gripped her thighs tighter.
“Gotta spread your legs a little more, Jules.” He grinned when she willingly complied, moving back down. “You’re so soft. So pretty.”
Muggs licked her again. He was urgently giving her the full stroke of his tongue. Julia’s breath hitched. She ran a hand through his dark mop of hair, watching his head between her parted thighs as another shudder of pleasure made her heart flutter. The next one made her scream. She was swirling, nuzzling inside with long, affectionate sweeps until she couldn’t take it.
“Fuck, Matthew.”
She breathed his name, unable to withstand the force of intense feelings created by his wicked mouth. She ground her hips against him, needing more tension, more force. And he complied. Muggs lifted her slightly, pressing his viciously gifted mouth more entirely against her. She could feel the sharp cut of his jaw as he devoured her with his insatiable kisses and tongue.
“How much more?” She cried, feeling her toes curl and her fingers sink into his hair again. “Matthew, please.”
He pulled back a little, his lips shiny with spit, wiping them with the back of his hand. “You’re openin’ up a little, Jules,” he said, genuinely pleased in Julia’s mind. It gave her pause, realizing he was doing all this for her later comfort. “That’s good.”
Julia was coming undone, convulsing with white-hot pleasure against his searching tongue and pumping digit. But Muggs didn’t let up. As he garishly absorbed her, she felt her entire body grow both scorched and chilled. The spatter of his kisses made her mind blank as though she were drunk. The strength of the nightmarish young man between her legs engulfed her. It destroyed her sensibility so that she’d give all she owned away to feel his mouth on her.
Daring green eyes, gleaming with intent and control, met hers. The look drew the air from her lungs. Before she could regain her breath, he gently pushed a second finger in, spreading her open, sending a lightning flash of electricity through her whole being. She let out a sweet sigh and swooned with ecstasy.
An essential turning in the lock sent Julia into a flurry of panic. Muggs sat back, tilting his head in confusion as Julia frantically began re-dressing. He watched her pull on her shift and skirt, not bothering with her corset—somewhat amused by her dizzying movements.
“Relax,” Muggs coaxed with a laugh, catching the trousers she threw at his face. “It’s just Lex—”
“Get dressed, Matthew!” She hissed, buttoning her chemise quickly and trying to comb out her hair with her fingers. “Please, dammit!”
Muggs shook his head, re-buckling his belt. “He’s seen far more than this, and he doesn’t give a—”
The door opened finally, and Muggs’ face fell at the dark-haired, veteran fire captain in the doorway. “Fuck,” Muggs finished, facing his father, Colm Tracey, soberly.
Julia folded her arms across her chest as If she were still naked, averting her eyes.
“Evenin’, boy,” the older man called to his son.
Colm walked quickly into the flat and swung a chair toward them, resting his hat on the carpet and sitting down as if he were in a pub ordering beers. He sprawled out the way Muggs did, flashing Julia a Tammany-winning smile. Colm lit a matchbox and a half cigarette from his pocket.
Like usual, his eyes lingered on the flame before shaking the match. Then Colm turned to his son, offering a smug grin, and as if Julia weren’t there, he added, “Lose the hooker. We need to talk business.”
Chapter 11: Burny-Blowing
Summary:
“This is about the cocaine.”
Muggs sniffed while mumbling, “I ain’t doing cocaine, Mary.”
This caught the attention of a few boys. “You’re doing cocaine?” No Name asked.
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
March 1902
Brooklyn, NY
“No, Henry, dear, that’s an ‘s’ not a ‘c,’” Kate Moore reminded Henry, erasing the wobbly chalked letter on the slate with her finger. “Try again. It’s a trick word. The ‘s’ sound is a ‘c.’”
The seven-year-old boy sighed, much too grown-up for a child. With a hand resting on his chin, he picked up the chalk and tried the letter again. “This is hopeless.”
“It’s not hopeless, Henry,” Kate admonished, giving him a light smack to the shoulder, followed by a flick of his nose. This got a bashful smile from the blonde-haired boy. “You wait and see. You’ll be the best speller in the house in no time.”
“Maybe if you give the kid something easier. Like trigonometry,” Spot mumbled from another desk in the third-floor schoolroom. The lodging house had two, one on the third and one on the first floor. Spot always preferred the third-floor one. It was quieter and had better books on the shelves, even when he was a boy.
She twirled away from Henry’s desk, advising him to keep practicing with the list of words she’d drawn out for him. Focusing on Spot, she crossed before him like a schoolmistress and smacked his desk with a pencil. Placing her palms flat, she leaned forward until she was inches from Spot’s face. “Don’t make me give you sentences to diagram, Mr. Conlon.”
Spot sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Are you going to finish telling me about that night?” He asked seriously, running a hand through his tawny hair. “How was I to know you were with Grim and Natalie when Muggs left?” He gave a side-eye to Henry, who didn’t seem to be paying attention to them, too busy diligently copying Kate’s list on his slate.
Kate held his gaze momentarily and then nodded curtly, pulling away from the desk and walking around Spot. He bent his head back, following her with his eyes until she came to sit on the desk beside him, crossing her legs. “I told him, you know. I told him that because of Jesse, Muggs got as upset as he did and wouldn’t listen.”
“How do you know that?”
“Tom, what was Muggs wearing the night he left?”
Spot snorted. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“What was he wearing?”
Looking off to the side, Spot shrugged, biting the inside of his mouth in thought. “I don’t know, Kate. That old jacket of his. Some raggedy trousers. Those boots that are now worn-through, the ones Julia tried to have repaired—”
Kate cut him off with a raised hand. “Right. Who do you think those belonged to?” Spot went to shrug again, and Kate cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you dare shrug those shoulders. You know perfectly well.”
“Jesse Tracey—”
“Jesse Tracey,” Kate finished with a bit of chin tilt. “I begged Grim to go with him, but he insisted I stay put. They didn’t want me to get hurt. I knew it would be mishandled. I knew it, Spot. I can’t explain it, but I could feel it in my bones.”
“Feel what?” Spot asked, watching Henry erase more letters with a frustrated little groan. His eyes snapped back to Kate.
Kate stared back at him, swaying slightly as she thought over her words. “I could hear his cries,” she mumbled, shivering as she said it. “I could feel his agony. It was odd, but…I never felt closer to Muggs than I did in that moment.”
January 1894
Brooklyn, NY
“Merciful heavens!” Mary gasped as the front door of the lodging house blew open and hit the wall with a bang, rattling the framed pictures and jolting a hanging cross. She eyed the newcomer in alarm. Since the close call with the Children’s Aid Society inspection the week prior, when she’d almost lost her position, she’d been slightly jumpy in her skin.
In stumbled Muggs Tracey, as loaded with cocaine as Mary had ever seen a fifteen-year-old. He laughed a little as he went to take off his cap and swayed, almost tripping over his own feet. The bruising around his right eye was new, as was a gash above his eyebrow. He steadied himself with a bloody knuckled hand to the doorknob, pushing it closed. About four hours earlier, his father Colm had retrieved the boy from the lodging house for ‘dinner,’ as he’d told Mary.
Compared to his early days in the lodging house, Muggs started going compliantly with his father whenever he came around. And the boy would always come back with a fresh array of cuts and bruises, varying in severity, and either blind-drunk or hopped up on some substance—what kind of substance, Mary didn’t know. But she could tell it wasn’t natural. It made Muggs skittish, talkative, and agitated. Mary stopped asking where he and his father went on those evenings. All she’d usually get in reply was a mumbled explanation she knew was a lie. A restaurant across the bridge. A vaudeville play. A trip to Coney Island.
Mary wouldn’t buy it, but she never demanded more. The more plausible explanation, Mary privately decided, was that Colm Tracey was throwing his son into a ring for brutal pugilistic sport. There was considerable money in it, party money. Money for The Hall. Win or lose, depending on the bet. Afterward, he’d take the boy for drinks at some godforsaken watering hole and dump him back on Mary’s front steps. Newly wounded. Newly intoxicated. Still angry.
The room spun as Muggs walked through the warmly lit parlor, past a dozen younger newsboys gathered around a table, trading marbles. His boots tracked mud as he made his way up the stairs without one word to them.
“Matthew,” Mary called from her chair by the fireplace. She paused her sewing and calmly waited for Muggs to turn around, which he did with some difficulty, saying nothing. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“You know who I am,” he mumbled, wiping blood from his nose onto his trousers. “I don’t gotta sign in no more.”
“Matthew, it takes not a second to write your name,” she continued, pulling the thread and pushing the thimble. Her once-nimble fingers now looked worn to the bone. “I know you can do it. Then you may go wash up or whatever it is you please.”
Muggs lingered on the fourth step, swaying again as he stared at the floor. With an audible groan of disapproval, he marched back down the stairs and located the giant ledger lying open on Mary’s desk. He felt around for a pen and grasped it angrily in his left hand, scanning an open line and scribbling his letters almost illegibly. He narrowed his eyes at the paper, examining the names of those staying the night.
“Grim ain’t sleepin’ here?” Muggs asked dryly, not finding the older boy’s name—usually written by Tide McGurk—and turning another page to see if it had been written elsewhere.
“Miles won’t be joining us tonight,” Mary said from her rocking chair. She smiled as one little boy triumphantly presented her with a cat’s eye marble. “This is lovely, Gino. May I keep it?”
The little boy with the missing front tooth nodded. “It’s my best one. I want you to have it, Ms. Mary.”
Muggs rolled his eyes, trudging back up the stairs, hearing Mary’s affectionate laugh and singsong reply of, “Thank you, love. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”
He climbed the steps quickly and stepped over two more small boys who sat on the second-floor landing playing a game of jacks. His boot smashed down onto one of the cast iron jacks, and one of the children gasped.
“Aw, Muggs, why’d ya have to do that?” He asked mournfully, picking up the damaged toy and holding it up to show his friend. “I only just bought these.”
Muggs did not answer as he continued up another set to the third-floor bunk room, taking the stairs two at a time. Most of the older lodgers resided in this crammed dormitory, while most of the younger ones filled the second floor. He quietly slipped past Grim Krause, who was repairing a light fixture on the third landing.
“Hullo, Muggs,” Grim said, finally turning from his work and wiping his brow to find the native-born boy fit to collapse. “What happened? Ain’t you supposed to be in town with your pa?”
Muggs barely had enough breath in his lungs for a snide reply. “Ain’t you supposed to be in Natalie’s pussy?” He growled, ignoring the wide-eyed look of shock the blonde boy gave him. “Mary seems to think so.”
Sweat began pouring from Muggs’ forehead as he entered the bunk room, ignoring the older boy. His skin was recently pale, and he stumbled over a discarded pair of boots, nearly falling to the floor but catching himself with the wooden frame of a bunk bed. His breathing was wild, erratic.
Using whatever furniture and walls he could for support, he stumbled for the washroom. Just as he passed through the door, Grim entered in pursuit, watching his frantic movements. Sweating and feverish almost. He discarded his jacket on the floor, then stripped off his shirt as if ants were swarming inside it.
“Muggs?” Grim tried again tentatively.
The boy moved fast, still unsteady on his feet. He left the washroom door ajar behind him so fast. Grim followed into the bunk room, lit only by a few lamps, and the soft glow of moonlight filtered through the windows dressed in sheer curtains. Down the other side of the room, he heard running water and violent coughing.
With the faucet still pouring water, Muggs’ hands clutched the edges of the sink. Water dripped from his face as he looked at his labored reflection, beaten and caked in dried blood. Shuddering, he tried to get his breathing under control. Then he looked down at the sink, noticing blood spots on the white porcelain. He stared dumbly at it, looking more than a little anxious.
Grim listened to the sink in the washroom. Worriedly, he stepped forward, maintaining some distance.
“Muggs?” He called nervously. “Are you alright?”
No reply.
“Should I fetch Mary?” Grim asked after a beat. That’s when he noticed Muggs’ discarded jacket and bloody shirt. He picked up the coat and stared at it strangely. Then he pulled a small peppermint tin from the pocket and popped it open. Quickly, Grim closed it again, shoving it back in the pocket and letting the jacket drop where he’d found it.
Muggs emerged from the washroom, his darkened frame filling the doorway. He stepped forward into the dim natural light from the bunk room, looking as though he’d survived whatever dizzy spell had overtaken him.
Grim turned and met his gaze in quiet dread. Muggs looked at his jacket on the floor, close to where Grim stood, sucking in a breath. They looked at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Muggs stumbled to his bunk, not bothering to strip off his day clothes, and sat in bed. From somewhere beside him, he could hear No Name telling Calico about the girl he’d been with that evening. Calico sat with one of his stray cats, gently stroking the purring creature’s mane as he distractedly listened to No Name’s story.
Rolling over, nauseous in bed, Muggs tried to ignore the salacious account. He’d had his tumble that night—two, one right after the other. He was hazy on the details. One moment, he was downstairs with Colm, struggling through his third glass of whiskey, not even close to catching up with his father, who was on his fifth. The next moment, Colm was shoving him up the stairs, laughing like the devil as Muggs protested, feeling his son’s sore ribs and aching jaw and telling Muggs this would help take the pain away.
I don’t have any more shields. I used them all last time, Muggs had told his father, still trying to weave past him on the stairs, preferring to return to his foul-tasting pint. The scantily clad madam, leaning suggestively on the railing, giggled as she watched Colm again intercept Muggs.
Do you think these whores won’t let you empty inside them? Colm roared with another round of laughter, making Muggs arch his head away, feeling deafened by the sound. They have tricks to take care of it, so none have your children. You don’t need any shields. ‘Sides feels better without them. Muggs had been pulled along by a Geisha-looking woman with a white-painted face and cherry-red lips, her cold hand moving into the warmth of his trousers for a feel. She’d whispered something in Muggs’ ear, a pleased smile on her pouty lips. He couldn’t decipher what it was, but she seemed to think he was handsome despite the beating he’d taken.
Ride him well, sweetheart. Colm had encouraged the foreign beauty clinging to his son’s arm. He just won twenty-five rounds with Mike the Rat and needs tending to. Muggs looked back to Colm, conversing with the madam who had draped herself all over him, kissing his chest, asking why he never came to see her anymore. With a grimace, Muggs wondered if she was in love with his father. A lot of women seemed to be.
I don’t have any shields, Muggs repeated to the woman, but she only smiled again and closed the door, whispering dreamily in broken English.
“Maybe he needs to sleep it off,” Muggs heard Calico say quietly. He opened his eyes to see the German boy holding the now sleeping cat, staring at him from a few bunks down. Muggs hadn’t even realized he’d drifted off as the room looked darker.
Mary stood before Muggs’ bed. She didn’t speak, examining the bruises on Muggs’ torso, the teaspoon-drops of dried blood on the mattress. She moved her handkerchief to the exhausted young man’s neck, dabbing away a lipstick stain. She did the same to another one on the right side of his chest.
Muggs roused himself from the daze, blinking blurrily at Mary. Without a word, Mary sat beside him on the bunk, moving his long legs out of the way and offering her hands out. Knowing what she meant, Muggs sighed and gave his right arm to her. She took it, sliding her hands to grip his hand, inspecting it first and then placing two fingers over the bony wrist. Glancing at the clock on the nearby mantle, she began to count quietly.
Muggs’ pulse was too fast. “Are you not feeling well, Muggs?”
“I’m fine.” His voice was barely audible.
“Do you need something for a sore throat? How about a lovely cup of tea?” She pulled the teacup off the end table, steam and chamomile rising from the liquid.
“Sure.” Muggs struggled to push himself up, and Mary rushed to put another pillow behind him. He accepted the cup, taking a sip before handing it back to Mary. The rim of the teacup came back tinged with reddened saliva.
Mary stared at it and then set the cup on the table again. “Will you open your mouth for me, please?” She peered in, tilting Muggs’ jaw toward the lamplight. Ruby teemed around several of his teeth—bleeding gums.
Muggs was dark around the lips and under the eyes. A cluster of bruises had appeared around his collarbone, fresh. His pupils were more constricted than usual, like pinpoints, even in the dark. “Are your eyes bothering you? Is your vision okay?”
“I’m seein’ you, ain’t I,” said Muggs.
“Is there something…are you in any pain?”
“I’m just…” Muggs made a vague gesture to his head, “Tired.” His eyes moved from wall to wall as if looking for a way out.
“Matthew, we need to talk—”
“Just let me sleep.”
“Matthew, love.” She worriedly looked over at Tide, who was holding his cap and wringing it in his hands. Turning back to the tall boy in bed, she rubbed Muggs’ arm soothingly with a frail hand, gently tracing the darkening bruises. “I won’t be cross with you.”
“Cross?”
“Yes. I’m not cross with you. I care for you deeply.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know about the…substances.”
“What? Did Spot say something to you?”
Spot Conlon sat at a desk in the school room on the third floor. A book with dog-eared, yellowing pages was nestled comfortably in his lap. A large lamp rested on the desk, casting ghostly shadows throughout the darkened room. He could hear a few boys talking outside, talking about Muggs. He then heard his name come up. Nervously, he went over to the door and shut it. Returning to his desk, he desperately tried to focus on the book but found himself reading the same sentence repeatedly without processing the meaning.
Suddenly, a scuffle in the hall grew louder as the voices grew louder. “Are you serious? You fuckin’ snitched to Mary?” The door to the schoolroom flung open. Muggs stared wild-eyed at Spot, still shirtless and glistening with sweat, his chest heaving in anger. He stormed further into the room to where Spot sat. “I had a few hash fuckin’ cigarettes, and you told her? Why the fuck did you do that?”
“What do you mean? I never snitched,” Spot replied steadily, though he closed his book and gripped it tight in his hand in case he needed it for a weapon.
“Fuckin’ figures you can’t keep your mouth shut.”
“I didn’t tell her anything.”
“So how come she’s accusin’ me?”
Mary appeared behind Muggs in the doorway. “Hold on a blessed second. Have you given anything to Tom, too?”
“What? No,” Muggs replied indignantly.
“Muggs, I never told her.”
“So why the fuck does she know?” The older boy demanded. “How would she have found out?”
Mary folded her arms. “Thomas Conlon, did you know about this? Did you know Matthew had brought illegal…substances into this house?”
Spot looked away guiltily. “You’ve got it wrong—”
“Well, if you count smokin’ hash to help me sleep as takin’ illegal substances, then okay, fine, I was takin’ illegal fuckin’ substances.” Muggs was practically spitting the words. “You ain’t my fuckin’ parole officer.”
He marched past Mary and toward the bunk room, slamming the door behind him.
Mary cocked a curious eyebrow at Spot. “Did you know?”
Spot averted his eyes, saying nothing.
Mary shook her head and walked back to the bunk room. “We do not slam doors in this house, Matthew!”
Cussing under his breath, Spot stood and hurried after the landlady. “Mary,” he called, trying to keep his voice from shaking, but his fingers twitched. “Tell him it wasn’t me, please.”
Mary opened the bunk room door as Spot caught up to her.
“Will you fuckin’ relax?” Muggs bellowed. “It was just hash.”
“This isn’t about the hash, Matthew,” Mary announced calmly. “This is about the narcotics.”
There was a fleeting, painful pause as Muggs read the situation.
“What?” he rasped.
“This is about the cocaine.”
Muggs sniffed while mumbling, “I ain’t doing cocaine, Mary.”
This caught the attention of a few boys. “You’re doing cocaine?” No Name asked.
“I ain’t,” Muggs interrupted. The others grew hushed. “I fuckin’ ain’t.”
“Demetrio,” Mary hushed No Name, silently urging him to stay out.
“You said it was only the once,” Spot added.
“Thomas!” Mary snapped, turning to the younger boy. “Please. I’ve got it handled, thank you. Go on back to your reading. I don’t need any stories from you.”
“Damn and blast,” Spot mumbled as he shuffled away, kicking the door ajar to squeeze through. “I ain’t spinnin’ no story.”
“I’ll spin you across that floor, lad!” She huffed. Whipping back to Muggs, she placed her hands on her bony hips expectantly. “Well?”
“If you’re gonna search through my things, do it already,” Muggs sneered. “I won’t stop ya.”
“I won’t touch your things.”
“Then what do you want? To fuckin’ blame me for more shit?”
“I am not blaming you, love. Alright? I understand—”
“You seem to have made up your fuckin’ mind, so go ahead,” Muggs said, walking out of the bunk room and down the hallway. “I’ll wait out here. Go on. Search my fuckin’ clothes.”
“That’s not necessary.”
Muggs turned and stared at her, trying to decipher her expression. What had she meant by that?
“Miles,” the old woman answered with a deep breath, looking sympathetically at Muggs like she hadn’t wanted to tell him. “He spoke to me.”
Muggs froze, taking it in. He felt like he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He could barely swallow, which felt like cement in his throat. He eyed Mary up and down and stormed back into the bunkroom, making a beeline for his bed.
“What the hell have you done, Mary?” He muttered, ripping off the blankets and sheets of the mattress. Digging for something. “Dammit.”
“Love, please,” Mary continued, feeling one of the more petite boys take her hand. She reached down absently to stroke his hair.
“What the hell have you done, Mary?” Muggs repeated, this time more frenzied as he searched for Shang Draper’s cocaine. The tin he needed to give back. Or else.
“Calm down, alright?”
“Dammit.”
“’Tis not the end of the world.”
“Where is it?”
“Love, you’re working yourself up.”
“I ain’t workin’ myself into a state. Dammit! It’s gone! I can’t lose it!”
“What have you lost?” Mary felt the child embrace her, wrapping his little arms around her skirt so she couldn’t move forward. “Alright, listen. I’ll take you to Dr. McGrady—”
“I ain’t goin’ to that fuckin’ mick doctor,” Muggs snarled, backing up. “If you’ve sent for him—Mary.”
“Listen to me. We can get you better again, love,” Mary tried, gently breaking loose from the child at her skirts. “It’s alright.”
“Mary, don’t get Dr. McGrady.” His voice was low and dangerous. “If he fuckin’ comes here, help me, God, I’ll make you regret it.”
Mary walked to the door, heading for the stairs with the little boy’s hand in hers. “I’m sorry, Matthew. You’re giving me no choice.”
“Don’t you fuckin’—” Muggs yanked the child’s hand out of Mary’s grip, shoving the kid, knocking the wind out of the tiny creature as he hit the wall. “Where have you hidden it? Where have you hidden my tin, Mary? Where is it?”
Mary gently pushed Muggs out of the way. “Stand aside, please.” She picked up the whimpering child and placed him on her hip, continuing down the hall. “I’m fetching a roundsman—”
“No, don’t.”
“I won’t have you hurting any of the boys under my roof,” she said fiercely. “And I won’t have you hurting me.”
Muggs stepped forward, towering over her and menacing in the dim light. “I do whatever I fuckin’ please under your roof.” He bent slightly so his face was at her level, a little too close for her liking. “I’ve smoked under your roof, I’ve drank, I’ve gambled, I’ve stolen. I’ve had more cunny in your attic than a fuckin’ whorehouse.”
Mary didn’t flinch, staring up at the young man who’d come to her cold and emaciated two years ago, pulling a little sister in tow. She couldn’t help the deep, disappointed frown that crept to her lips. The hurt and frustration that had been building for months and months…it all came undone before she could control it. “I mothered you! Alright? I love you like my own son! And I am not afraid of you!”
Muggs paused, tilting his head to study her. She never wavered, shaking her head, feeling his panting breath on her face.
“You’re making a mistake, Matthew,” Mary continued, quieter this time.
Muggs smirked as his eyes welled up with tears, and his jaw quivered.
“This is funny to you, is it?” Mary asked. “Do you feel nothing? Do you? It’s sad.”
The others gathered around the hall said nothing, waiting breathlessly, shushing each other, craning to see.
“You’re the one who’s sad, Mary,” Muggs said, matching her quietness mockingly. “No kids to call your own. You sure as hell ain’t my ma. And I sure as hell ain’t your son.” He let it sit before Mary as she winced, blinking away her sorrow. “Sorta makes me wonder if this is why you took the fuckin’ job. Keeps you from forgettin’ what a fuck-up of a woman are. Poor, sainted Mary. Can’t have babies, but she collects plenty o’ newsboys to keep up the illusion.”
Mary stood there, frozen in place, wiping a tear as Muggs turned away.
“You listenin’, Spot?” Muggs shouted to the closed schoolroom door. “I know you’re hidin’ in there.”
He crossed the hall in three long strides and opened the door. Spot was curled up on the teacher’s chair, which was turned to face the chalkboard. Taking a deep breath, Mary followed quickly after Muggs.
“I just want you to know that once you leave this place, you might have to become a fuckin’ priest or find a cure for syphilis,” Muggs said, sounding more controlled than before. “Cause if you just become a fuckin’ gutter trash drug addict like me, Mary will have nothing to show the CAS—” He swung around to face Mary, “and they’ll sack her for real this time.”
“Muggs,” Spot called, keeping the back of the chair toward the older boy. “Go away!”
“And you’ll have to be the one to go to your fuckin’ knees!”
Mary stepped further into the room. “Alright, leave him be, Matthew.”
“I’m just fuckin’ sayin’,” Muggs said with a shrug.
“Leave him be.” The older woman moved to embrace Muggs, but he shoved her away.
“Don’t fuckin’ hug me!” Muggs shouted as if he’d been scorched by fire.
Mary froze, looking gut-punched by his reaction.
“Don’t fuckin’ hug me,” he repeated with labored breaths. “Slap me if you want. Go on. Hard as you can.”
“Get the hell out!” Spot roared, flying out of the chair, his face reddening with anger Muggs had never seen on him. He crossed the floor and tried to pull Muggs away from Mary, but he was pushed away so hard that he tripped over his feet. Spot howled as his fingers were smashed between two desks.
“Don’t you ever feckin’ hurt him!” Mary screamed, slapping Muggs across the face soundly. As he reeled, Mary shoved him out of the room. “Mother of God, out! Get out there!”
She slammed the door shut and shakily dug out a ring of keys from her apron. Fumbling for the right one, she quickly turned the key and locked the door, throwing her weight against it. She felt it rattle as Muggs kicked and punched the door as hard as he could.
“Give me my fuckin’ cocaine!”
Mary could hear him shouting as the door shook violently against her back. Muggs hit the door over and over again. She was denting and cracking it. She could hear Tide, Calico, and No Name fighting to pull him away.
“Where is it? Where did you put it?”
Trying to compose herself, Mary turned and backed away from the door as Muggs pounded on it, touching the cross on the silver chain around her neck. She felt Spot’s arms around her as she backed up, eventually hitting one of the long benches with the back of her legs and sinking onto it. She could feel how quickly Spot’s heartbeat as she held him close. And she knew, too, he could see the tears falling down her cheeks.
Mary could hear Muggs groan in frustration as the pounding ceased. His boots under the slit of the door pivoted, and he began walking down the hall again. Moments later, she could hear protests and shouts from other boys. The sound of glass shattering. Bangs and crashes as if the furniture was being thrown. As if the bunk room was being destroyed.
“You think you’re my fuckin’ ma, do ya?” She could hear Muggs screaming at her from the bunk room as more objects were thrown. And more boys begged him to stop. “You’re gonna tell me I’m goin’ to hell for cocaine?”
His boots returned, stomping down the hall until a loud kick to the door made Mary shriek and Spot jump beside her. The schoolroom door was blown off its hinges. Muggs stepped on the fallen door like a drawbridge and went to where Mary sat with the younger boy. She shrunk and squared her shoulders, moving more in front of Spot.
“Are you tryin’ to fuckin’ kill me?” Muggs shouted. “Are you? You’re a miserable old bitch, Mary!”
“Please, Matthew!” Mary couldn’t hide her tears any longer, struggling to take deep breaths as a sob escaped her throat. “Ah, Jesus. You’re not yourself. What’s the matter with you?”
Muggs gripped the back of a chair and threw it so it clattered by Spot and Mary’s feet. “What’s the matter with me? I don’t know!” Muggs picked up another chair and threw it over a desk, sending it careening into the radiator before thundering out of the room. “I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me.”
He barged into Mary’s private quarters and began searching for the cocaine. “Where is it?” he mumbled, opening and closing drawers, ripping back blankets, throwing out clothes. “Do you regret takin’ me in?” He screamed to her. “You think I’m worth savin’? Where the fuck is it?”
Muggs continued ripping apart Mary’s room, frantically hunting for the contraband. Shang Draper’s contraband.
“Goddammit. Where’d you put it?” Muggs shouted. “Where’s my fuckin’ stash? Where? Tell me!”
Mary could hear the emotion in his voice, building as the pitch rose higher, more strained.
“Where’s my cocaine?” He moved out of Mary’s room, returning to the broken-down door. “Where are you hidin’ it? For fuck’s sake, where are you hidin’ it, Mary?”
His back hitting the wall, he slid down it and collapsed to the floor outside the school room. The older woman saw the redness of his eyes, the watery mist.
“I need it back, Mary. It ain’t all mine.” Muggs ran his hands over his eyes and then through his matted black hair. “Half of it belongs to someone. I’m in an awful mess. A terrible, terrible mess. It isn’t like I’m tryin’ to do the wrong thing. But I can’t help it.”
Mary turned to Spot, who looked back at her with wide blue eyes as Muggs groaned in distress like a wounded animal.
“All this pressure, my fuckin’ shoulders hurt,” Mary heard Muggs say from where he was slumped in the hallway. “I know I lost my temper, and I wasn’t tryin’ to frighten you. I’m very—” He stopped, catching his breath and swallowing his words. “I can’t keep fightin’ for much longer. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t, Spot. I made you cry—I didn’t mean to. I swear. I swear I didn’t. But I need that cocaine. I’ve got to have it, Mary. Just give it back to me.”
Mary raised her face soberly, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. She gazed hazily at Muggs, shaking her head.
“Goddammit!” Muggs roared again. “Give it back to me!”
Hauling himself back up with a surprising amount of force, Muggs slammed his hand against the wall and took off toward Mary’s room again. Determined to locate what had been stolen from him.
“Tell me where it is!” His voice had regained the wolfish howl again. “You ain’t foolin’ me, Mary. They have to be somewhere in here. Where did you put it? Why won’t you tell me? Where the hell is it?”
Mary emerged into the corridor, surrounded by other boys. Tide steadied her worriedly, keeping a hand on her arm. Muggs’ eyes whipped furiously to hers.
“Where is it? Huh?”
Mary’s lips tightened as No Name and Calico stepped before her, using their bodies to shield her.
“I threw it in the river!”
The voice came not from the third floor but from below on the first. Muggs froze, feeling his whole body go numb and cold. His face paled as he looked at Mary.
“You look caught, Matthew,” Mary observed composedly, tugging her shawl and tucking a strand of loose silver hair behind her ear. “Is it because what Miles has said upset you?”
Muggs felt the nausea in his stomach move up his chest. Mary watched a flicker of several different masks consume his face.
“Don’t stop now,” she continued, meeting his icy stare. “You’re fifteen years of age. Take accountability for all you’ve just said and done.”
No one said anything.
Muggs’ eyes narrowed at her. “I hate you,” he whispered.
He nudged past Tide, digging his shoulder into the Scottish boy, and descended the stairs to the first floor. He found Grim Krause sitting on the sofa by the front door, his cap in his hands. Beside him was Natalie Bray, her eyes downcast to her hands, which were folded as tightly as glue in her lap.
“Well, ain’t that nice.” Muggs whistled, shaking his head as he jumped quickly down the last few steps. “It’s a conspiracy.” He looked at the landing behind him to find Mary flanked by Tide and No Name. Calico was holding a much younger boy in his arms behind them. Spot and a few dozen others leaned over the fence, and a few dozen more looked down from the third floor. “I want you to know that Natalie’s a fuckin’ hooker, and anything she fuckin’ tells you, Mary, I’d take with a fuckin’ grain of salt.”
Natalie stayed quiet, raising her head shamefully and casting a look at Grim. Muggs laughed sardonically through his nose, coming closer.
“You don’t belong here,” Muggs said to her.
“She’s worried about you,” Grim said, sounding like he’d eaten gravel. He stopped cold when he saw the look on Muggs’ face. “I’m worried about you.”
Muggs stared at him, his eyes giving Grim nothing. Expressionless. “Neither of you had any business goin’ through my stuff and snitchin’, Krause.”
“I had to,” Grim replied, unsure what to say. He wordlessly rested a hand on Natalie’s knee. Protective.
“The hell you did.”
Grim swallowed as if he didn’t know how to react to Muggs’ animosity. “It’s true.”
“Why’s that?”
Grim looked to Mary and then back to Muggs, shrugging. “’Cause I’m scared for you.”
Muggs took another step forward, nodding. “You’re a fuckin’ snake, Krause.”
“You put everyone here in danger,” Grim said, looking Muggs in the eye.
“So what, you go fuckin’ run to Mary?”
Grim clenched his jaw, feeling Natalie slip her small hand shakily into his larger one. “She needed to know.”
Muggs’ serious green eyes moved from Grim to Natalie and then back to Grim. “Can’t you just mind your own, for once?”
Natalie flinched, averting her gaze again.
“I could kill you,” Muggs growled to Grim.
The older boy’s face twitched, staring into Muggs’ eyes. “You’re just upset—”
“I’m more than fuckin’ upset,” Muggs cut him off. “I don’t wanna know you anymore, Grim.”
“You’re better than this.”
“Am I? You’re fuckin’ one to talk, actin’ all high and mighty. Go on, tell Mary about all the times you snuck out,” Muggs spat, raising his voice and gesturing to the old woman clutching her silver cross again. “Tell her how you smoke opium with that dirty Russian-Yid in Manhattan! About the times you came back here so blind-drunk you almost fell off the fire escape on your way up!”
“That’s enough,” Grim said sternly, rising to his feet.
“Tell her!” Muggs continued, too far on a roll to stop himself. “Tell her about fuckin’ all the girls before Natalie in the attic!” He turned to look at Mary, pointing at Grim accusingly.
Mary shook her head, her eyes watering again. “Miles wouldn’t—"
“Oh my God, are you serious? Where do you think I got the idea from?” Muggs shouted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You’re a precious golden boy. Miles is no saint!” He looked back at Grim, almost shaking from the rage. “I’ve met a lot of low-down bastards in my life, Krause. But you have to be one of the worst. Pretendin’ to be meek, such a convincin’ act. Was the Refuge so unbearable? Or are you just milkin’ it for the attention?”
The instant Muggs saw the slightest sign of hurt in Grim’s façade, he saw the tears in his eyes and pounced on it, smirking tauntingly. “I’m fuckin’ right, ain’t I? You need to be loved, Krause. That's your problem. You’re nothing. If you think anyone gives a damn, you’re as cracked as your batshit-crazy mother. Oh, Miles is such a good boy,” Muggs said, mocking Mary. “You live for that.”
Grim kept up his stony resolve. “I know you didn’t mean that, Muggs.”
The fifteen-year-old moved closer until he was so close to Grim that he could see the different specks of blue in his eyes.
“I’m your friend,” Grim said.
“No, you ain’t,” Muggs scoffed, rolling his bloodshot eyes. His lip quivered with rage. “Quit lyin’! You ain’t my friend!”
Grim’s eyebrows furrowed at the slight catch in Muggs’ voice, the way it cracked. Muggs noticed it, too, and only got more enraged. “You were fuckin’ there when he was. You fuckin’ saw him in those last weeks.” Muggs was rambling now, confusing the others but making perfect sense to Grim.
That’s what this was about? Grim wondered, bowing his head.
“And if you were my fuckin’ friend, Krause,” Muggs continued, having to catch his breath. He stepped closer. “If you were a friend, you’d remember that today…today…”
Grim swallowed hard, feeling like rocks were in his throat, nodding to show he understood. It was then that he noticed what Muggs was wearing. Jesse Tracey’s trousers. Jesse Tracey’s boots. And no doubt he’d worn Jesse Tracey’s shirt, too.
Today, Muggs marked the third year of Jesse Tracey’s death—his death by hanging in the yard at Sing-Sing. A death Muggs had been privy to.
“I’m your friend, Muggs,” Grim reaffirmed slowly. “I just want the best for you.”
“Then leave me the fuck alone.” Muggs steeled himself. “You’re a goddamn nightmare.”
Muggs turned and walked away, shoving his way back up the stairs to the third floor, leaving Grim standing where he was, staring gravely at where Muggs had been, chewing on his lip.
Mary took another shaky, audible breath, clutching her stomach like she’d be ill. Grim could tell how weary and overwhelmed she was in one glance. Hesitantly, she took the remaining steps to the first floor and approached Grim and Natalie.
“Are you alright, love?” Mary said to Grim, placing a hand on his arm.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Natalie sat motionless behind Grim. “I shouldn’t have come,” she said quietly. “Muggs was right. It’s none of my business. I don’t like seeing you fight.”
No one moved. No one breathed for the next few moments as the dust settled around them.
“Let’s go across the street to the café,” Natalie whispered to Grim, standing up and squeezing his hand once. “That’s where I left Julia and little ketsele.”
“I can’t leave—”
“Oh, go on, Miles. I’ll be fine,” Mary urged, telling him to go with her eyes. She reached his ear and whispered, “Come back in an hour or so. Let things cool off.”
Grim nodded wordlessly. As they left, the door opened and shut, leaving Mary again to face the fire.
Mary found Muggs on his bunk bed, his sheets and pillow torn to the floor. The entire room looked ripped apart. His knees were hugged to his chest. His eyes were red and tired.
“I don’t think I’m a good person, Mary,” Muggs mumbled to his feet. “I don’t think I’m good on the inside.”
Mary sat beside him, not touching him, simply picking up his discarded blanket and folding it in her lap neatly. She did the same to his sheets. “Perhaps you shouldn’t stay.”
Muggs didn’t look up, his striking face a wreck of regret and confusion. “Yeah. I know.” He spat out the words.
She pursed her lips, moving to look at him. “Do you have somewhere else you can stay tonight?”
Muggs didn’t answer her directly. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper. You ought to hate me now.”
The older woman shook her head. “I don’t hate you, Matthew.”
Muggs looked up at her as more tears filled his eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you, either. I miss my brother.”
With a sigh, Mary inched her hand toward Muggs’ shirt on the floor, holding it up and inspecting the moth-eating holes and worn fabric. The missing buttons. The frayed ends of the sleeves. She knew it for one of Jesse’s. “I know you do, love. I know.”
“I want him back.”
“I do, too,” Mary echoed, neatly folding Jesse’s shirt and giving it to Muggs. “Very much.”
“Jesus,” Muggs breathed, fighting hard to keep his chest from heaving and the lump in his throat from choking him.
“Love, you need to go somewhere else tonight,” she said gently. “Can you go stay with your friend? Alexei, hm? He seems like a nice young fellow.”
Muggs nodded stiffly.
“Whatever.”
In the end, Tide helped pack Muggs’ things with Mary. He folded Muggs’ clothes delicately as he tried to keep his emotions in check. He picked up Jesse’s jacket—the one Muggs wore everywhere—and stared at it for a long moment before adding it to the carpet bag. Muggs watched Mary cinch the bag shut and handed it to him.
“Do you want fare?” Tide asked Muggs in a low, gruff voice. He dug around in his pocket, pulling out some coins and holding them to Muggs. “For the hansom?”
Muggs ignored the money, turning on his heels and heading down the stairs with his bag.
Mary hurried after him, unable to keep up with his long-legged strides. She watched him blow past Spot on the landing, nudging Calico and No Name aside.
“Matthew,” she called, picking up her skirts to weave through the mess, desperate to reach him before he left. “Matthew, wait a moment. Won’t you give me one hug and kiss before you go?”
Muggs paused in the doorway, having just gotten the door open. He turned toward the frail older woman, staring up at him with such hopeful, loving eyes it pierced his cocaine-beating heart. Looking out the door, he saw Grim across the street, alone, leaning against the brick wall of a tenement building. Watching. Waiting and smoking a cigarette.
Without one word to Mary, Muggs angled past her and down the front steps of the lodging house into the darkened streets.
Mary leaned back against the door in shock. She felt a hand take her own, gently guiding her back into the parlor. It was Spot. He closed the door and knelt on the sofa, pulling aside one of the curtains to watch Muggs walk away. He didn’t see him, though.
Placing her hand over her mouth, Mary let a weak whimper escape her lips. Her frantic attempts to do something—anything—had ground to a halt, and she was sitting on the sofa beside Spot, sobbing into her handkerchief.
The door opened again, and Grim reentered, having seen Muggs leave. Mary stood, walking to him, and crumpled against the tall boy’s chest. As soon as Grim put his arms around her, every ounce of strength left her body, and she collapsed. Grim held her up more than he hugged her.
“Is he going to be safe? Is he going to come back?” Mary kept asking. She had no idea what was going through Muggs’ mind. Grim shook his head in silent disbelief, his arms still around her. There was nothing more to say. Mary knew she was his surrogate mother. She should pull herself together, be a role model, and be strong for Grim and the others. But she couldn't do anything other than weep helplessly, a rag doll in a sixteen-year-old boot-black’s arms.
March 1902
Brooklyn, NY
“Come on, thirty rounds most. Not like last time. It’ll be a clean fight,” Colm said between sips of his pint. He picked at Muggs’ untouched plate, not asking if he could help himself. “Mike the Rat. You remember? You punched him in the guts when you were seventeen.”
Muggs blinked at his father, ignoring the bustling of patrons around the busy restaurant. It wasn’t fancy—a working-class venue, but certainly more decent than any restaurant Muggs habitually frequented. “Fifteen,” he said to the tablecloth.
“What’s that now?”
“I was fifteen,” Muggs repeated numbly, fiddling with the sleeves of Jesse’s jacket. It had gotten small around him now. He sat like he’d been made to at gunpoint, perfectly still and rigid. “Not seventeen.”
“Is that right?” Colm appeared to be in genuine contemplation, freezing his movements, fork stabbed with a slice of potato pausing in the air. “Thought you were older ‘n that.”
“Nope.” Muggs clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth.
“Well, you’re stronger now, anyway,” Colm added, shoveling the food into his mouth. “And far less gangly, less awkward. Your line of work has given you proper muscles. Like your pa.”
Muggs stiffened as his father reached out and grasped his upper arm, prodding and squeezing his left bicep.
“Atta boy,” Colm said, grinning proudly with a final slap to Muggs’ arm. He sat back in his chair and signaled for another drink from the bartender. “So, what’s it to be? Are you in or out?”
“Out,” Muggs said without hesitation. He squared his shoulders, staring past his father at Julia as she made her way around several tables, having made an excuse to powder her nose intermittently. Twice so far.
Colm turned, following his gaze, and saw Julia heading back to her seat beside Muggs. He raised his eyebrows, looking the young woman up and down as she reached them.
“Out?” Colm repeated in disbelief, his face dropping. “I’m sorry, did I just hear you say ‘out’? Are you havin’ a smirk at me, boy?”
“You heard it right,” Muggs muttered. He pulled Julia’s chair out and helped her into it, pushing it back when she’d settled. His hand grazed the back of her neck and down her arm, where his fingers found her lap. He rested a hand on her knee to keep her calm. He knew Colm uneased her, and that annoyed the hell out of him. How dare his father put her in an ill feeling? “I ain’t doin’ it, Dad. That’s final. Understand?”
Colm’s lips twitched as he looked from Muggs to Julia, finally looking her in the eye for the first time that evening. He nodded like he’d clocked some invisible, unknowable signal. “I understand,” he said slowly, a smirk dimpling his cheeks. “I understand perfectly.”
The charming smile made Julia shudder. It was downright sinful and repulsive how similar it looked to Muggs’. She had to look away.
“It’s cause o’ her you’re goin’ soft on me,” Colm decided, running his tongue over his teeth. “It is. Well, I’ll be damned. The day you let a woman tell you what to do with your life, you’re through.” He drummed his fingers against the tabletop. “’ Tisn’t as peachy-keen as they lead you to believe, boy. Trust me. Especially uptown blossoms like that. They like keepin’ downtown filth as little more than pets.”
“Careful,” Muggs said steadily, but Julia’s blood ran cold from his tone. It was strained sounding. “Julia ain’t got nothin’ to do with my decision. I ain’t in the mood, that’s all.”
Julia eyed the bartender, placing Colm’s drink on the counter and waving for the waiter to bring it over. She stood up again abruptly. “I’ll get the drink,” she said, excusing herself again, eager for another out. She felt like she’d lost all the air in her lungs as if that table was the most suffocating corner of the world.
As soon as she’d left, Colm leaned forward, nodding to where he sat. Muggs stayed still, sipping his glass uninterestedly. Colm gloated like a child performing a complicated acrobatic trick before family guests.
“Tell me one thing, boy,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse from all the years of inhaling smoke from burning buildings and Lucifer-lit cigars. Muggs waited for him to go on, setting his glass down. “How many times did she suck your cock before it broke off? You’re actin’ like a madman, alright. Spineless as a damn jellyfish. I hope she was worth it because I don’t want you seein’ her anymore. I forbid it.”
“Oh, you forbid it?” Muggs almost laughed, shaking as he did so. “That’s rich, Dad."
“Look, that bit of blonde is fun for a tumble,” Colm answered, lighting a cigar, eyes lingering on the flame before he shook it out. “Sure, you ruin her every night. Hell, she looks as though she can take it. But get a grip and realize she isn’t going to last. She doesn’t belong here, in our world. And you don’t belong in hers.”
Muggs sniffed in response, watching Julia return with Colm’s pint. “What are you sayin’ exactly?”
“You’re twenty-four, Matthew,” Colm went on, whistling at the sound of it. He drummed his fingers again compulsively like he was typing out Morse code. The gesture took on a concerned intensity. “You ought to be findin’ a bride of seventeen. A good Catholic wife, to feed you, clean your house, give you children. Then go out and get a few molls if you want. Have you ever asked yourself why an uptown girl like that is jumping into bed with you? It’s cause she’d rather get fucked by a fellow that ain’t related to her—”
“Here you are, Mr. Tracey,” Julia said tightly, appearing by the table and setting the pint down a little forcefully before Colm.
“Good girl yourself,” Colm said with a satisfied nod. He stared at Muggs amusedly as his son helped Julia into her seat again.
“What?” Muggs caught his father’s stare with a cold one of his own.
“Never mind.”
“What?” Muggs repeated, louder this time.
Colm shrugged, watching a near mirror image of his younger self in his second son, wrapping a protective arm around Julia…or Effie Moore, as Colm recalled correctly. He squinted, seeing the blonde turn into the dark-haired, dark-eyed Italian beauty smiling wickedly at him in his memory.
They’d sat at that very table nearly twenty years ago. With him a handsome young fireman of twenty-five, and she a dazzling, exotic vixen not yet out of her teens. She’d kicked off one little dainty-tied boot, stroking his leg with her stockinged foot as she grazed the wine list like she’d done it a million times before. She’d ordered what she wanted in perfect English, with the slightest trace of an Oxford accent, as most upper-class expats were trained in. The foot had traveled to his thigh, and Colm had pursed his lips, grabbing it beneath the tablecloth, glaring at her.
But she’d refused his gaze, inspecting her little timepiece like a clockmaker. She looked so divine in her white muslin blouse, with her dark locks piled high upon her head. So radiant it made Colm groan and gripped the table for support. Oh no, that was her foot on his crotch. She moved it ever so slightly, deliberate, rubbing motions. He went up and down until Colm coughed, choked on the beer, and then tried to gulp down. Again, he looked at her, but Effie’s attention was now on the glass of red wine placed before her. She paid no mind to the waiter whose gaze had lingered on her longer than Colm’s liking.
Effie took the glass, swirling the blood-red contents uninterestedly, dead behind the eyes until she finally met Colm’s fierce, hungry green ones. The foot began a clockwise motion, and a slight smile tugged at Effie’s mouth, her lipstick slightly askew, as she felt Colm move somewhat beneath it. What are you getting? She’d asked him coolly as if nothing unusual was occurring beneath the table.
Colm licked his lips, taking another hard pull from his glass of beer.
I think I’ll try the coq au vin, she’d continued, pronouncing the dish in flawless French, avoiding Colm’s hot emerald eyes boring into her. Or perhaps the aubergine—oh, I mean eggplant. Why don’t we split it?
Colm shrugged, having never tried either extravagant dish in his life. Do you think it’ll be enough? He suddenly clutched the table again, hissing under his breath as Effie’s foot slowly trailed from the top trouser button to the chair seat. Fuckin’ hell, Effie.
Again, with a little smile, Effie set her wine glass down and looked Colm squarely. Like she was casting a spell. More than enough, she’d said at length with a warm glow to her cheeks. His eyes were on her lips as she spoke. And if it’s too big, she sighed, her eyes nearly rolling back in a flicker before she locked them on him again. I can take it back to my house. To my room. Would you like to come, Colm?
“I’m just kittled. It would be best to make time for a meal with your father. You always were more accommodating than the other one,” Colm finished, meeting Muggs’ eyes, so green like his. “It’s bully of you to agree to it anyhow. Seeing as I interrupted your evening with the lovely Ms. Hawthorne.”
“You didn’t just interrupt,” Muggs said, frustrated. “You broke into my flat.”
Colm tilted his head and then laughed warmly.
“You did indeed,” Julia spoke up, still disquieted by almost getting caught naked by Colm with his son’s head between her legs. “I vote you never do such a thing as that again, sir.”
“She votes,” Colm echoed, wiping the amused look off his face with one hand as he tried to look meaningfully in Muggs’ direction. “Look here, boy. We ain’t kind to suffragettes.”
Muggs stared at him, Julia’s fingers laced with his beneath the table, which was the only thing keeping Muggs from throwing his pint at his father’s head. Julia looked at Colm in almost identical surprise.
“You’re for women gettin’ the shit kicked outta them at picket lines, then?” Muggs demanded.
“That’s a foul thing to strike a woman like that, protesting or not. It ain’t pretty.”
“So you’re against crackin’ their heads?”
“Any rabbit with honor knows you don’t do so much as escort them to police wagons. Yes, you shamefully disrespectful dog.”
“Well, why—”
“I repeat, we ain’t for suffragettes. We’re for Tammany.”
Muggs felt Julia rest against the chair, seemingly resigned, as though she’d expected this response. As for Muggs, he was ready to beat his father into the mud.
“Don’t you ever speak for me again,” Muggs advised. “Fuck the fuckin’ Hall and all the fuckin’ rabbits you run with. And what does this have to do with Tammany anyway?”
“It’s because the firemen strike-breakers are mostly Tammany-occupied and Tammany-operated,” Julia said. “There aren’t any Republican coves among those ranks, and heaven knows they aren’t socialists, either.” She fixed her remarkable blue eyes on Colm, unflinching and unafraid. “I see what you’re saying, Mr. Tracey.”
Muggs didn’t look convinced. But he’d be damned if he fell behind. Colm sent him a hopeful look as if he were waiting for his son to give the correct answer to a math equation he’d been working on for hours.
Then it hit him. Vivid and excruciatingly obvious.
“Sam Burke,” Muggs conceded. “His mills. His workers are striking, and a good heavy of them are suffragettes. I get it. How about you and all the other firefighters come out supporting voting to get them to end the strike? Maybe they wouldn’t have to stop traffic if they got the vote.”
This time, it was Colm who stared at Muggs like he was an idiot beyond help.
“Matthew Tracey, I will beat that talk out of you so hard you’re head will spin,” Colm pledged. “Firemen are Tammany, and Tammany ain’t for suffrage.”
“Sure they are,” Muggs said, frowning. “They’d listen to you, you know. Bring a few working women speakers to join—”
“There ain’t no working women in Tammany.”
Muggs’ shoulders fell back against the chair in significant loathing. “Are there any women in Tammany?” Muggs pondered aloud drearily.
Colm said nothing as Julia took a hearty sip from Muggs’ pint and then grimaced.
“The whole thing is an insane spectacle,” Muggs muttered. “I’m more for suffrage than I am for Tammany.”
“That’s sublime for you, boy. But I’m for Tammany,” Colm retorted, shiny green eyes flickering. “That means the insane spectacle is why you had a place to go at night and food on the table when you were just a sprat, so please excuse my allegiance to the psychiatric hospital. That allegiance is what kept your kids from starving to death. That’s what it was about. Christ knows you were never thankful, and I slaved enough for two lifetimes. But if you fancy yourself for women’s suffrage, then you keep nish about it. Do you think you can stomach it for me? We are the fuckin’ most on-the-low Tammany men for women’s suffrage in the states. Do I make myself clear?”
Attempting not to wince—and doing so anyway—Muggs shrugged. At the same time, he kicked himself for not tiptoeing a bit stealthier around his father, where alcohol was involved. Beer often makes Colm emotional.
Muggs wanted to say he didn’t quite understand, but he could try to. And he wanted to add that he was still for women’s suffrage, but he also knew he was naïve about many things. Muggs was even enticed to say he knew now how fiercely Colm went to bat for him as a friend even though he was a complete monster of a father. He wouldn’t, though.
What Muggs and Colm left unspoken could light the eastern seaboard.
“I’ll ask you again,” Colm said, pulling at his mustache and leaning forward. “Will you or not go thirty rounds for old time’s sake, boy? For all I’ve done for you?”
For the first time, Muggs looked torn, continuing with the unconscious brush of his fingers over Julia’s hand. His tongue slid under his lower teeth, mulling it over.
A smile crept onto Colm’s face. “I’ll even throw in seven percent and—”
“I believe he said ‘no’ the first dozen times, did he not, Mr. Tracey? I’m confused over what you’re failing to comprehend.”
Both sets of Tracey-green eyes snapped to Julia’s composed form as she balanced her fork neatly across her plate. She signaled for the waiter to take it away. “Oh, and I do hope you know dinner was exquisite, and your generous offer to foot the bill was mighty gentleman-like.”
She squeezed Muggs’ hand, standing and nearly pulling Muggs up with her. He got to his feet all the same, towering over her and helping the clever blonde don her coat. “Are you ready, Matthew?” She asked, turning to him and warmly pulling the lapels of Jesse’s old jacket around him.
He could only smile down at her in silent adoration. “Yes.”
“You ain’t stayin’?” Colm asked Muggs, eyeing Julia angrily. “You’re just going to let her drag you home like some schoolboy? If your mother had pulled something like that, I’d throw her across my knee.”
Taking his large, calloused hand in her delicate, smaller one, Julia brought Muggs around the other side of the table. “Why, Mr. Tracey,” Julia began, her dazzling smile only growing ever luminous as her blue eyes darkened with sin, “I thought you said it was a foul thing to strike a woman. Were you lying then, or are you lying now?”
Muggs didn’t wait for his father to reply to that. Instead, he tightened his grip on Julia’s hand and gave a slight tug, quietly urging her to leave with him before it was too late.
“Maybe I’ll ask Dom Conlon’s boy then!” Colm called after the pair, grabbing Muggs’ unfinished pint. “See if he’s more man than you are! See if he lets his fancy woman tell him where to spend an idle hour!”
“Good fuckin’ luck with that, Dad,” Muggs muttered, pushing open the restaurant door to the blistering cold March air. He wrapped a large arm around Julia, pulling her close so she could nestle part of her fast against him, shielding her from the bone-stinging wind.
“Have I gotten you in too much trouble, Matthew?” He heard Julia ask against his side as the couple strolled along the sidewalk, both as otherworldly-exquisite as the other. “I couldn’t bear to see you agree to such a blood sport again.”
He looked down at her, cracking a sliver of a smile in response. God help him. She was beautiful when she was furious. Bending down, he planted a soft but tender kiss on the top of her hair, and she beamed pleasantly. “Jules, darlin’,” he said, rubbing her arm as he pulled her closer to his chest. “You’ve made me the happiest cove in New York, Птичка.”
November 1897
Randall's Island, NY
Camille wore a ragged black dress that looked a little oversized on her. From the missionary barrels at the church, Marquette thought, as it was dirty and poorly stitched. Its skirt hung a bit loose around her waist, though, and its sleeves had been rolled up not to cover her hands. She hadn’t brushed her lengthy hair, which was out of the ordinary, and Marquette could see her lips were lightly chapped, and her lower eyelids carried greyish bags.
They met inside the visiting parlor of the Refuge, with Camille’s eyes shining with tears. She practically leaped into his arms, unable to hold back the sob in her throat, burying her face in his chest. “Oh, Charles, something terrible has happened!”
“Tu vas bien, ma petite colombe?” He asked, holding her tight momentarily and stroking her back as he kissed her hair. He met the eye of Mr. Kinney, who was to stand sentry during the visit. The guard shook his head at Marquette, and the young man regretfully let go of Camille, gently prying her arms from him. “Touche pas,” he reminded her quietly.
“Mais—”
“Je sais, je sais,” he whispered.
Nodding as she sniffled, Camille dejectedly brought her arms to her sides but kept leaning against him as if trying to memorize his smell, the way his heartbeat against the side of her face, the feeling of his chest rising and falling with each breath. She’d missed him so much. And now she had the darkest news at home, and without him there to steady her excitability, she’d been utterly in ruins.
“Katherine is near death,” she murmured. “Julia was there, she—found her, I think.”
Marquette stared at the love of his life as though he didn’t know her. “I don’t understand.”
“The neighbor woman was kind but wouldn’t let Julia and me in the room. And she said assaulted. But that wasn’t all. I don’t believe that was all. Julia cannot afford a doctor, and I’ve already sold my clothes, save for this one. But it wasn’t enough.”
Marquette could tell she was about to cry again. The edges of her eyes were pink, gleaming, and her skin drained of its color. What had happened to Katherine? Marquette could tell it was dark and ugly—it was tattooed on Camille’s corneas as she stared at him, saying nothing, as confused and wounded as anyone he’d ever seen.
“I cannot explain,” she tried again, using her hands emphatically. “It’s too much—”
“Dites-moi en français, Camille. It’s okay.”
With that, the words began to flow like a fountain, bubbling over and spilling into pools of despair until Camille was again a mess in Marquette’s arms. This time, Mr. Kinney didn’t bother to interject. He let Marquette hold the crying girl, convinced that whatever bad pass had befallen the young couple, allowing them a few moments of innocent comfort, wouldn’t come close to solving it.
“We have close to thirty dollars stashed away under the mattress. It’s yours now, and you’ll get a proper doctor. It’s enough to be getting on with, but…I’m sorry about your clothes. How much did you make from it?”
Camille’s mouth fell entirely open like a drawstring being pulled.
“I can’t take your money, Charles. You worked so hard for it. You wanted to save it for our first baby—”
“Katherine needs it more than I do, trust me,” Marquette insisted. “Please take it. I’m sorry I can’t do more. Keep her safe in Brooklyn. I should be out in two months or so.”
There were too many tears running down Camille’s cheeks. Marquette wanted to wipe them away.
“Whatever is best for Katherine,” Marquette reassured her. “Nothing else matters right now.”
Her eyelashes flickered. “I can’t. I can’t take your savings. There are other things I can sell. I don’t mind. Julia and I talked about it, and I can make more in a day with men than a week in a factory.”
“You won’t do that, ma petite. Take the money,” he said, taking her hands in his. “We can afford it.”
“Charles, will you tell Grim?”
“If you want me to.” Marquette was already pulled along by Mr. Kinney, checking his pocket watch and noting the time. Camille hurried after him, pulling his other arm.
“Julia wants him to know about the reverend,” Camille called softly, wiping her eyes with her long sleeves.
“Then he’ll know,” Marquette answered, bending down and kissing her quickly before the door was closed behind him.
“How bad is she?” Grim’s soft voice had a sharp edge as he waited impatiently for a response that evening, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Marquette, how bad is she?”
“I don’t think he knows how bad,” Tide tried to explain, but Marquette shrugged and ran a hand through his dark hair.
“Camille said she doesn’t quite act right,” the Frenchman explained. “That reverend must’ve kept her chained up like an animal. Julia's scared she won't make it."
“What else did Camille tell you?” Grim demanded.
Marquette described Camille’s account of the situation, while Tide questioned how reliable Kate’s testimony was, considering her state of mind. Camille hadn’t known if Kate was meant to die eventually at the hands of the reverend or if she’d just meant to be disfigured in some way. But the reverend was behind it. There was no question, according to both Julia and Kate.
“And something else,” Marquette added. “Julia found a check with a considerable sum on the reverend’s desk, addressed to Penelope Anderson.”
Grim’s head swiveled back to Marquette in absolute shock. His lips pressed together tightly for a moment. “What?”
“Katherine accused her of stealing the necklace, nearly got her dismissed,” Tide recalled to Grim as if his distraught memory needed any jogging. “You don’t suppose she had something to do with this business?”
“Is that bad?” Marquette asked, looking wide-eyed from Tide to Grim. “What could Mrs. Anderson want with Katherine?”
“I should’ve known,” Grim hissed through a steady pressure around his square jaw. “She got rid of Natalie, too, you know. And my baby. She can make anyone she wants disappear for good. I never once dreamed she’d go after Katherine, too. I thought if I…”
Tide exchanged a look with Calico across the room. The German emigrant rose from his bed and made his way over, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he shivered. “What’s happened?” he asked hoarsely.
“Dammit, I should’ve known! The lying bitch!” Grim slammed his hand against the wall and pivoted, marching toward the door opposite the dormitory. “Goddammit!”
Cards eased out of the washroom with Lion, the two of them bare-chested and dressed in their long underwear, hair recently wet from the freezing water of the showers. Shakespeare tapped Cards on the shoulder, pointing toward where Grim disappeared down the corridor, still muttering under his breath.
“Do you know what’s going on?” Lion asked.
“Mm-hmm. Grim’s finally cracked,” Cards replied.
Lion snickered. Cards tried to keep a straight face and laughed all the same.
Tide glared at them. “What’s so funny?”
“Huh?” Lion asked.
“I asked what the joke was.”
Lion smiled coyly as he dried his hair roughly with a towel. “I ain’t never seen Grim that wound-up. Is swearing off sex for so long finally gettin’ to him?”
Tide grabbed Lion’s wrist, making him drop the towel. “Why don’t you go sleep off your stupidity.”
“Yeah, and who’s Julia?” Cards asked, having heard enough from inside the washroom. “Ain’t that the moll who wrote to Muggs?”
“Keep mouse, Cards,” Shakespeare whispered. “He doesn’t know we read it.”
Lion laughed. “She wrote some good things in that letter. I can’t believe Muggs fucked a girl who used the word ‘temperance.’ Twice.”
“Shut up!” Tide shouted, violently shoving Lion against the wall, trying to silence him. This only made Lion and Cards laugh harder, drawing the attention of a few others. “This has got nothing to do with that.”
“Here,” Shakespeare said, pulling out two cigarettes he’d bummed from a guard earlier that day. He gave one to Cards and Lion, striking a bit of flint against the door frame. “Put something in your mouths besides your feet.”
Grim, meanwhile, was already down the main staircase in record time, weaving past a hoard of younger boys who were meant to be scrubbing them with buckets of dark, soapy water.
“Say, what’s the big idea?” One youth shrieked as Grim’s boot kicked his brush out of the way.
“Where’s Mrs. Anderson?” Grim asked, bending down to pick up the brush and return it to its irritated owner.
“With the girls, teachin’ night class,” an Irish boy of eight replied, missing one of his front teeth. “She was readin’ the Bible earlier. Sent two girls a-cryin’ from the schoolroom with Mr. Burke. Never did find out what fer.”
“They were pretty, too,” the first boy said, now diligently scrubbing a stubborn spot of mud on one of the steps.
“Is everything okay, Miles?” a dark-skinned boy asked, looking up at Grim with wide eyes. Not once had he seen the older boy so sinister.
“Go upstairs,” Grim told the five children on the stairs. “Never mind your chores. I don’t want you around when I go in there.”
“Go in where?”
“I said get lost!” Grim roared, startling the younger boys, who looked at each other and then scampered up the stairs to their dormitory. “Go on!”
He made his way to the schoolroom, pausing outside of it briefly, hearing the faint words of Nell Anderson as she recited passages for the girls to repeat, chalk scribbling against the blackboard, shoes scuffing the floor.
Without knocking, Grim turned the doorknob and pushed in, meeting the warm light from the small girls’ classroom. It felt haunted. The pipes rattled like St. Philomena at her castle cell bars. She was just a girl, as Atlas told Grim. A girl like the ones who sat at the desks before Grim, just like the ones who knelt in the Refuge chapel and at the feet of guards like Burke.
The girls' hymn abruptly stopped when Grim closed the door behind him. The room went silent. Whispers flitted about the aisles until Mrs. Anderson cleared her throat, tapping her pointer against the desk to get the girls’ attention. “Excuse me, there will be no talking,” she said. Turning from the blackboard to the newcomer, the little veins in her neck seemed to jump in alarm upon seeing who it was. She inhaled sharply, steadying herself with a hand to her heart. “My goodness. Miles. What are you doing here? I’m with a class.”
Nell was sharp as cut rock, polished as a gem, composed, emotionless, and sweet-faced. She was one of the only things Grim could read.
“What happened to Katherine Moore?” Grim asked without hesitation, his chest heaving. “What did he do to her?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replied sweetly, sugar and poison stirring in her voice. “Who is Katherine Moore?”
“What do you mean, ‘who is Katherine Moore’?” Grim snapped. “Why did you give her to that man? Reverend Coster?”
“Oh. Is that who this is about?” Nell asked pleasantly on her way to the desk, setting down her pointer. “Frankly, I remember her relationship with you turning toward something unsavory. That she was starting to become a bit too close with you.” She paused, eyeing the girls in woolen stockings and blue uniform dresses watching the exchange. “Ladies, begin your compositions. I’ll be checking them before you go this evening.”
Wordlessly, the girls opened their writing books, casting fleeting glances from Grim to Nell. Colleen was staring at Grim with wide eyes. Leah nudged her, nodding to her open book and gesturing for Colleen to do the same.
“’ Too close’? Who told you that?” Grim demanded.
Nell’s eyes scorched with infuriation as she stared at Grim, not exactly pleased with the sudden line of questioning. “Never mind who told me. She didn’t belong here and needed to be sent somewhere to be better reformed.”
“So, you sent her to him?”
“She was temptation when she was here.”
“She was eight!” Grim’s voice had risen and brought a few gasps from the front row of girls. A sniffle came from the back, and Colleen wiped her eyes as tears started to fall. “I was protecting her—"
“Protecting her, is that what you’d call it?” Nell didn’t flinch when Grim moved closer. Didn’t even blink. But that’s not what unsettled him. What unsettled him, with a string of disgust on his spine, was the way she completely ignored Colleen as the girl wept. They didn’t spare a glance her way, nothing to comfort her. It was as though not looking at Colleen rendered the girl nonexistent: insignificant as a doll and easy to throw away.
She eyed Grim the closer he came. “Are you threatening me?” she asked, her voice ever controlled and crisp.
“Threatening you? No, I just—”
“Are you accusing me of something, then?”
“I just want to know why you sent her to him—”
“What I want to know, Miles, is how exactly that girl was to go the rest of her youth without getting into trouble? Let alone the rest of her short time here. You, of all people, should know. She needed rehabilitation.”
Grim stared at the matron, wondering how defiant he could be before the guards were alerted. “With all due respect, Mrs. Anderson, you’ve made it very clear we’re here to be punished,” he said. “Not rehabilitated.”
“Excuse me?”
“Katherine was subjected to untold indignities in here, and all these girls,” Grim said, gesturing to the rows of frightened faces, “suffer just as much, some worse. You can’t deny that. You can’t pretend you didn’t know Reverend Coster would hurt her. You’re a smart woman.”
“Suffer?” Nell echoed softly, leaning against her desk as light sparkled off her brooch like a shattered prism. “Which of my girls are suffering? Could you give me their names?”
Grim saw the coldness in her eyes and knew he was making enough trouble for the young inmates in the room. “No.”
Nell was silent for a long moment, weighing her words carefully. Surprisingly, most people looked distressed. On Nell Anderson, it looked like amusement. Her lips parted, her head tilted to the side as she batted her light eyelashes. Grim wondered if she’d rehearsed that reaction. It didn’t look natural.
“You know, there have been moments lately when I’ve started to get the feeling you might be unwell,” the matron said with another frightened waving gesture, changing the subject. “I thought you’d moved on from your loss, but you’ve gotten sicker.”
Grim’s eyes moved to the floor at those words, shaking his head. The reference to Natalie and the baby changed the mood completely. “This ain’t about them. This is about Katherine and what you’ve done to her.”
Nell watched him, knowing she’d struck the chord she’d intended. “How do you know anything about where that girl is?”
“I’ve gotten letters from her friend—”
“Letters?” Nell couldn’t help but laugh, making Leah flinch and look up again. “And who reads them to you? Matthew Tracey?”
“Muggs?” Grim laughed, albeit out of frustration and disbelief. “Muggs wouldn’t even tell me if I was on fire.”
Nell’s anger suddenly was on full display without much warning. “Then what proof is there that I had anything to do with your little Katherine Moore? How dare you come in here and accuse me of such things.”
“I don’t have proof! I don’t have any proof! But I know you wanted her gone!” Grim argued, losing control of himself.
“Miles!”
“She almost had you sacked because you stole her necklace!” Grim went on, crossing the room in two straightforward strides. “Where is it?”
“Honestly! This is most inappropriate!” Nell gasped as he towered over her. “What right have you to barge in here, rudely interrupt, and demand such things of me? What right? I expected better of you, Miles! I thought you were more mature than this!”
“I demand such things of you?” Grim shouted, his face inches from hers now. “Where is Katherine’s goddamn necklace? You stole it! Katherine knew it, Jesse knew it, too! Are you wearing it now?”
“Leave this room at once, or I shall scream!” Nell hissed, trying to shove him away. But Grim’s nimble fingers were already on her upper arm. “Miles! Let go this instant!”
The girls began whispering again—their composition books were long forgotten. Colleen’s cries were audible. “Ladies, you are dismissed,” Nell said to the girls as calmly as she could. They froze until she hurriedly said, “I said, dismissed!”
Frantically, the girls stood and collected their belongings, making a mad dash for the exit and filing out. The door slammed shut behind them.
“At least admit that you gave her to him!” Grim continued, letting go of Nell’s arm but not backing away. “She might die because of what you did! A thirteen-year-old girl, Mrs. Anderson! How much did he pay you for her? How much was she worth to you?”
“This is a monstrous falsehood!” Nell maintained, placing a hand on Grim’s chest to settle and keep him at bay. “This has nothing to do with me! And nothing to do with you, either!”
“Give me back her necklace, then!”
“I haven’t got that little Jezebel’s necklace! And even if I did have it, I wouldn’t give it to you!”
Grim glared at her, his eyes seething with red-hot fury, and without a second thought, he reached up and began unbuttoning his uniform jacket. “Is that what it’ll take, huh?” He asked in a low, icy voice, letting the garment fall to the floor. “Another trade? Fine.” He could hear the girls shriek and murmur in confusion and fear from the door's window as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on Nell’s desk, revealing his scarred-up back. “Katherine’s necklace in exchange for a quick fuck,” he said, so close to Nell’s ear. “You always said I could get whatever I wanted. And I want her goddamn necklace back.”
Nell arched her torso toward Grim as if she were holding a knife to his throat, biting her lip flirtatiously, subtly. She nodded to the empty desks. “You’re frightened, my girls,” she said. “I imagine they’ve fetched a guard by now. Your back will be torn to ribbons by tomorrow.”
“But I’ll heal up, and you’ll still be a murderer.”
“Grim!” Tide had burst in through the door, followed by Rails and Crazy. He took in the scene of Grim practically cornering Nell at her desk, his shirt discarded and sweat dripping from his face. Nell looked unharmed, though Tide noticed how she’d pulled up her skirt ever so slightly. “Grim, stop it! What are you doing? Are you trying to get thrown in solitary again?”
Crazy exchanged a look with Rails and then quickly ducked into the schoolroom, grabbing one of Grim’s arms while Rails collected the jacket and shirt. “Come on,” Crazy urged Grim, helping Tide pull him to the door. “She ain’t worth it, Krause.”
Grim allowed himself to be dragged out by his friends, still glaring at Nell over his shoulder. “I know what you did, Mrs. Anderson,” Grim said, his voice dripping with vague threat. “I know you’re lying. And I’m going to prove it. Mark me.”
Nell was on the verge of stuttering, but she spoke clearly. “I won’t soon forget this, Miles—”
“You better not,” Grim replied as Nell smoothed the wrinkles from her long, lavish blue skirts. “Cause for what you did to Katherine Moore, ain’t none of us will let you.”
Chapter 12: Oll Korrect
Summary:
With a sigh, Jesse looked at the word she was pointing at once again and shrugged, tucking his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. “It’s slang. For all correct.”
“All correct?” Katherine echoed with a quizzical expression across her cherub face. “But would that not be AC?”
“Oll Korrect,” Jesse drawled with a wink, pointing to the two letters at the end of the sentence the child was silently re-reading. “O.K. It means the same thing as ‘all right.’ Savvy?”
“Okay,” Katherine tried out and smiled again, this time more genuinely. “Where’d you learn it?”
“Ah, solnyshka, that’s been around since the city was Dutch."
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
October 1891
Randall’s Island, NY
As Jesse Tracey trudged back to Ward 9 from Ward 4, his gaze drifted toward the cold October stars as he fingered the silver saint medal around his neck. He couldn't help but wonder how he might bring a smile to his sickly younger brother's face during tomorrow's visit - the first since the boy's arrival at the Refuge. The thought of Matthew Tracey wasting away behind these walls cycled through Jesse's mind on repeat until he reached the third-floor stairs and passed through the end-of-hall doors.
That's when a small and wild something careened into Jesse's legs, and his heart sank at the impact. He instinctively reached out to grasp the tiny child's arms. Fortunately, this swift reaction prevented her from tumbling onto the waxed linoleum after her hands flew to her head, touching a loose curl of dark brown hair.
With a faraway, dazed look, the little girl stared up at Jesse like a castaway on a storm-tossed raft. He then noticed her thin red flannel Refuge nightgown with its row of neatly sewn pink ribbon along the neckline. She was barefoot, and the gown was ripped at the sleeves and neckline, tearing down the bodice.
The little girl couldn't have been over eight years old and barely weighed fifty pounds. The wind, blowing through an ajar window on the landing, sent a shiver down her spine, causing her gown to slip off her left shoulder and her toes to graze the frigid floor. She quickly fretted over whether the large shadow she ran into was a night watchman. After all, none of the inmates were allowed out at night. Each gust of wind felt like ice on her skin, spurring her to erratic, lightning-quick movements.
She stole away from her dormitory in secrecy, snatching the key from the pocket of an abandoned pair of pants beside her bed. Her nightgown was drenched, sticking to her skin and sending shivers down her spine. To dry the fabric, she tried to peel it off her body while traversing the maze-like corridors leading to the grand staircase, clutching the walls for support. The furniture was barely visible in the darkness. She encountered rows of satin curtains, stiff-backed chairs, and oriental rugs that threatened to trip her at any moment. The numerous creaking steps presented countless opportunities to be discovered.
Upon spotting the second-floor staircase doors, she raced down the large stretch like a butterfly in the night, desperately attempting to remain unseen. Her bare feet scraped against the thick, grimy carpet, covered in years of dirt tracked in by boots. She nearly stumbled over a dead mouse, which made her heart skip a beat. Fearful that she had made too much noise and would be caught, she wondered if they would send her to solitary confinement or give her the cat.
But she quickly regained her composure, and as the moonlight filtered in through the jade-glass windows, she made her way forward. A few high-pitched wheezes and a single shriek of fear revealed her presence, yet no soul was behind her.
She was enveloped in a dreamlike, unsettling landscape, the walls marked with chalky outlines and the surroundings bleak and unpolished. Her mind went blank as she watched a spider creep up its web near the window. She was jolted back to reality by the sound of someone bounding up the stairs, the steps echoing through the stillness of the night. In a sudden surge of panic, she was left deaf and blind, unable to process anything. She fumbled for her wet nightgown once more, hoping to peel it away from her skin.
The girl peered around the corner and rushed past an older woman carrying a heavy laundry basket. The matron paid her no heed, assuming the girl was headed to her dormitory on the second floor. But the child seemed too young to be among the older girls who lived there. Who would bother waking Snyder for such a small matter?
Jesse Tracey, for one, would not. He had a soft spot for poor children, having once been one himself. He knew all too well the despair of being tossed like livestock onto Randall's Island. He had seen his siblings' faces twisted with powerlessness too intense to be hatred when the police arrested him. Jesse vowed never to be the cause of such pain for a child, even if it meant sacrificing his freedom or life.
He had planned to meet with Matthew the following afternoon to inquire about Colleen and their mother. But as he rested on the third-floor landing in the darkness, a little girl stumbled into him, her movements frantic and her clothes soaked through with a pungent odor. Jesse steadied her by her arms, only to be met with a sharp pain as she bit down on his finger. He pulled his finger back, wincing in pain, and looked into her striking pale green eyes. Despite the bruises on her shoulders, she held herself perfectly and had delicate features reminiscent of a duchess. Jesse wondered if the child had had an accident, a common occurrence for those living in such conditions.
"Jesus!" exclaimed Jesse. "You all right, little miss?"
The girl didn't answer and quickly backed away, but her face was as readable as a hog in a mud puddle. It seemed like she was trying to keep a lid on her feelings, but Jesse could see them bubbling up like hot tar.
Jesse considered taking her to the front office or the infirmary, but he didn't bend to either of those options.
"Come over here," he said gently. "I ain't gonna do you no harm."
Jesse scooped up the child, but when he tried to open the door to Ward 9, she started wriggling and squirming like a catfish in a frying pan. That's when Raffi Williams appeared in the doorway, looking like he'd just seen a jackalope.
“Mercy on us,” he gasped.
Raffi rushed to his bed and snatched up blankets as Jesse walked in with the now limp little girl, grabbing a tin cup from a nightstand to fetch water from the sink.
“There’s towels in the linen bin,” Raffi pointed to the washroom. “Fresh ones, for ablutions.”
Jesse set the child down on a peeling bench in the large washroom, shutting the door behind him. Raffi lit a lamp on the broad center table, surrounded by a sink trough. Under the brighter light, Jesse examined the soaked nightgown, detecting the unmistakable scent of alcohol, not urine.
Her green eyes darted so frantically that Jesse took a few steps back from where he had placed her on the bench. He took a few soft and clean hand towels from the basket.
“Are you in any distress?” Jesse asked softly.
Not a word was uttered. Then he realized.
“Do you savvy English?”
This caused a little furrowing of her brow as she frowned inquisitively. "What kind of question is that?"
Jesse couldn't quite place her accent, but the girl spoke like an American and one who was used to the ways of the city, too.
Her hands were shaking, and Raffi returned with a basin of warm water from the pump. He muttered and lit candles to warm the washroom in a honey-gold glow. Jesse examined the girl more carefully and noticed some strange things about her appearance.
“Raffi,” he said, keeping his eyes on the girl.
The two young men carefully removed her dress, and she didn't resist but instead lifted her arms over her head to help them. Raffi used a damp, hot towel to clean the girl's lightly bruised knees.
“These marks are old,” Jesse observed, surprised. "I don't think she's injured. Her dress is torn and wet, but there are no fresh wounds."
"She'll be torn in half," the girl croaked, her eyes brimming with tears. She then collapsed in exhaustion, her hand catching Raffi's as she fell against Jesse once again.
Raffi took charge and wiped all the sticky alcohol off the scared girl while Jesse held her on his lap. Then Raffi produced an extra-large nightshirt, which he pulled over the girl's head and buttoned up. He then released her dark curls from where they were pinned and placed her on Jesse's bed, the last cot by the south-facing window. He was methodical in his madness, which gave Jesse some peculiar comfort. Once the girl was sound asleep, Raffi and Jesse returned to the washroom to talk.
"The smell of that liquor made me thirsty," Jesse said, trying to sound amusing, but he ended up sounding queasy. "I'd give my left hand for a drink."
Raffi clicked his tongue and teeth. "Hold on," he ordered, bending back into the dorm. When he returned, he had a hand-rolled cigarette and his last match. He had a fierce look in his brown eyes, and Jesse took the matchstick from him and lit the cigarette between Raffi's lips. Raffi took a deep drag, then handed it to Jesse. It was like sharing a regulator on a scuba dive—camaraderie of sorts.
“Did you see Ro?” Raffi asked cautiously. “Is she doing all right?”
“I saw her. She’s fine. Just feeling sick this morning, that's all.”
"Reckon, I don't blame the gal for skipping their slop they call food," drawled Raffi, taking a drag from the cigarette before passing it back to Jesse, who nodded and pursed his lips in agreement. "So, the kid was found wandering in the hall, and you brought her here?"
“Yep, that's right,” replied Jesse, a little stunned by the sudden turn of events.
Raffi hesitated before responding, "I don't rightly know if that was the right thing to do, but it's done now."
Jesse shrugged, feeling uneasy and realizing he had taken more than his share of the cigarette.
"Well, once she wakes up, we'll find out what happened, who she is, and why she's in this state. But we can't interrogate her when she's out cold."
Raffi looked at the child with a hint of concern and remarked, "Little gals like her can be trouble, you know."
"You mean poor Italian girls?" Jesse asked, partly sarcastic, knowing full well that the child's unaccented English didn't mean much in the city where one's appearance and origin spoke louder than words.
"Nah, not just them," Raffi replied, taking a drag on the cigarette. "I mean, she's a little stargazer. You know?"
Jesse winced as he burned his fingers on the cigarette ashes. He raked his hand through his hair, perplexed by his blindness. He was tired, hungry, and preoccupied with seeing Matthew the next day, but it didn't excuse his lack of perception.
“The bruises,” Jesse muttered. “On her knees.”
Raffi's lips curled into a remorseful smile. "You're sharp as a tack, Jesse. The bruises on her knees, precisely."
"Maybe she got them from something else," Jesse said, leaning against the wall and absently tracing the tiles of the communal showers. "Colleen's always falling and getting bruises like that."
Raffi shook his head, the gesture carrying the weight of a well-crafted thesis statement.
That wasn't all Raffi was implying. He hoped he wouldn't have to spell it out. It was easy for Katherine to let them remove her nightgown. No resistance whatsoever.
The Manhattan night was never complete without the women of the night lurking in doorways and alleys, bedecked in paint and tacky trinkets. Jesse had seen them at every turn, their hair long and loose, trying to pass themselves off as younger than they were. They flounced about in flimsy chemises, revealing the perfect amount of cleavage to lure in a potential customer. Their damaged hair was greasy and lathered in soap, curled to perfection as if trying to hide the evidence of the beatings they had received for years on end.
Young girls were a different matter altogether. They dressed in a manner that made them appear older than their actual age, with piled-up hair, heavy makeup, and corsets. The little stargazers were usually kept locked away in brothels catering to the most perverse predilections. Jesse knew of a few establishments of that kind. Some were exclusively for street boys, where girls could be purchased for as little as two cents. Jesse had grown up with friends who had visited such places.
Other establishments were strictly for the wealthy and adult clientele. Shang Draper's, for instance, was a notorious house of ill repute located at Sixth Avenue and Twenty-fourth Street, where clients could buy the favors of children between the ages of nine and fourteen. Though primarily girls, there were occasionally boys as well. Jesse recalled hearing about a ten-year-old girl who was beaten to death in one of the house's small paneled bedrooms last February. Much to Jesse's disgust, the story never reached the papers.
"You’re a-sayin' one of them guards thought she was fair game because of her past," Jesse surmised. "Well, if they did, she's welcome to bunk with us, or she can tough it out if she pleases. But I'm not telling Snyder. Either he won't believe it, or he won't give a damn."
Shaking his head again, Raffi plopped onto the bench and took one last puff from the cig before quenching it against the wood. He sat pondering, flicking the dead butt into the waste bin.
"Did you hear what she said about bein' torn in half?" Jesse inquired.
"A doll, maybe. She came in with one, a ragdoll hiding under her dress. The doll gets discovered and confiscated after a bit of a scuffle, and she runs out to retrieve it. Maybe she knocked over a jar of chloral hydrate on the way out. It's got that same sort of scent. Yes, that's it. She falls to the floor, and it soaks her nightgown. She's afraid whichever matron took her doll would tear it apart, so she can't get it back. She'll tell us when she wakes up."
Raffi got up, holding the lamp he lit.
"I'll bunk with Krause. He won't mind," Jesse offered, noticing the protruding bones under Raffi's undershirt. "We won't move the girl tonight."
"Alright. I'm glad she's in your bed and not mine. I ain't getting a beating for that," Raffi remarked thoughtfully, grabbing the blanket he'd initially been used to cover the child. Then, after a few moments of silence, "She was talkin' about her doll, Jesse. I'm sure of it."
Raffi was a practical sort, and Jesse knew that. He was usually right about a lot of things. The alcohol on her dress could've been medicinal, from a jar of spilled chloral hydrate rather than from a flask. And ragdolls were easily torn in half, as Matthew had done to a few of Colleen's, much to Jesse's disappointment. He felt a bit relieved as these thoughts settled. Yes, it made sense.
The thought of a poorly constructed doll being torn apart made Jesse's already empty stomach churn. He wearily gazed at a murky stain on the floor near one of the sinks. As he stumbled in the dark towards Grim's cot, a question arose in his mind - would he, too, be torn in half when the trapdoor opened and the rope snapped his neck in a few months?
Jesse's eyes flickered open, roused from his slumber by a pair of eerie green orbs that peered at him. The sun had begun ascent, sending a glint of light through the window and into Jesse's blurred vision. He tried to make sense of what he saw, feeling dizzy and upside down. Next to him, Grim lay fast asleep, his nightclothes soaked with sweat from their shared warmth.
It wasn't until Jesse shifted on the cot that he realized what had been watching him. A child with wild curls and curious eyes fixed on him wore Jesse's oversized shirt and a pair of wool stockings.
"What can I do for you, little miss?" Jesse murmured, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He had to get her out before the morning bell summoned them to prayer.
"I read your letter. You spelled the word 'wig' wrong," she said, holding the letter for Jesse to see.
Jesse stifled a groan. He had been writing about the dying Whig party in his letter to Matthew, not a hairpiece. He urged the child to return to her dorm before the morning bell.
The child's curiosity was insatiable. "Does it mean something? Where did you hear it?" She pointed to a word here and there.
"Pass me my trousers, will ya?" Jesse grumbled, not wanting a cold shower with Mrs. Anderson on guard duty in the washroom.
Jesse took the trousers from the girl, who presented them to him with a grin. He pondered her sincerity, which seemed to be a kindness that concealed a thermometer, gauging how warmly or coldly she would be treated in return. He nodded as she pointed to the word in his letter again, silently imploring him to define it again. Despite having been soaked in alcohol a few hours earlier and having been subjected to some unpleasant acts, all she could do was ask about the meaning of a word in his letter. She must have taken a letter under his pillow while he was asleep.
“My name is Jesse Tracey. Who are you?”
"Some folks call me Katie, but I reckon I ain't fond of it," said the girl, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow. "My given name's Katherine Moore, but if you're curious, I can tell you the name I was born with, too."
"Well, I surely would like to hear it," Jesse replied with a friendly nod. He quickly donned a shirt and stepped out of bed in his long johns, feeling a chill on his toes from the cold floor.
"It's Katerina Russo. When I was young, I couldn't rightly roll my 'r's like I can now, so I figured Katherine would do just fine. 'Course, Katherine is just the English version of Katerina, so it doesn't make much difference in the end. Say, is Jesse Tracey your real name?"
Jesse cursed himself for not getting his trousers on quicker as he flipped them right-side out and struggled to fasten them on his skinny legs. He did so in record time, as most other boys were still snoring away with fifteen minutes left before the bell.
Meanwhile, Katherine was scrutinizing the letter once more. Jesse reckoned she must have been familiar with all sorts of manuscripts in her day. She skimmed through it, searching for any words she didn't comprehend. Perhaps she wasn't from the gutter after all. Jesse had noticed that the soles of her feet were smooth, indicating she'd had shoes for most of her life. Her hair wasn't chopped to her chin like many of the poor factory girls from the East Side, and she had far too strong an opinion about the contents of private correspondence for an illiterate lass.
"I reckon it's time we stopped this line of questioning," Jesse interjected, hastily changing the subject. "Come on, we need to find your dorm. Don't want to get caught wandering the halls at this hour."
“Why don’t you tell me what it means? I should like to use it from now on.”
With a sigh, Jesse looked at the word she was pointing at once again and shrugged, tucking his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. “It’s slang. For all correct.”
“All correct?” Katherine echoed with a quizzical expression across her cherub face. “But would that not be AC?”
“Oll Korrect,” Jesse drawled with a wink, pointing to the two letters at the end of the sentence the child was silently re-reading. “O.K. It means the same thing as ‘all right.’ Savvy?”
“Okay,” Katherine tried out and smiled again, this time more genuinely. “Where’d you learn it?”
“Ah, solnyshka, that’s been around since the city was Dutch,” Jesse said, pulling on a pair of moth-eaten socks. “Let’s get you back to your real bed before anyone notices you’re gone. Are you on this floor?”
Katherine stood there like a jackrabbit caught in a trap, clutching the letter tightly. Her eyes were glued to the parchment, taking every curve of the woman's handwriting. Jesse could see the wheels turning in her head, and he knew it was only a matter of time before she said something he would regret.
“You love her,” Katherine declared, her voice low and ominous. “I bet you get in bed with her. Without clothes, right?”
Jesse felt his face turn beet red. He had never been good at hiding his emotions, and right now, he felt a strange mix of embarrassment and anger. He wanted to tell her to mind her business, but he knew that wouldn't work. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down.
“Um...that ain't for you to know. I reckon--”
But it was too late. Katherine had already read the letter, and there was no going back. Jesse could see the realization dawning on her face, and he knew that he was in trouble.
But then something strange happened. Katherine's expression changed, her frown turning into a smile. She looked up at Jesse with bright eyes and a mischievous grin.
“Some people don't like that, though. Perhaps you don't like it? But if you love Ro, you better not tell her about me. Since you let me sleep in your bed, after all.”
Jesse was taken aback. He had expected Katherine to be embarrassed or upset, not understanding and forgiving. He looked at her momentarily, trying to figure out what was happening in her head.
“Oh, no, she won't care about that. You sleeping in my bed doesn't mean...I love you instead.”
“Does she have a baby in her tummy?” Katherine asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jesse nodded. “She does. Yes. But keep nish about that, little miss. It must stay between us.”
Katherine’s smile brightened. “Okay.”
Jesse gave a sympathetic nod as he lit one of his stolen cigarettes, offering one to Katherine in jest, which she declined sleepily. He blew a cloud of smoke into the air, watching it dissipate like his thoughts.
“Well, that’s mighty decent of you, Katherine. I appreciate your trust,” he said. “I’m not one to pry, but I can see you’re in trouble. You’re a brave little gal, but you can’t face this alone. We’ll make sure you’re safe.”
Katherine looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for sincerity. “You’re right. I’m in a pickle but couldn't ask for your help. You only just met me.”
“Well, you have it. You’re safe with me,” he said firmly, with a sense of conviction. “Let’s get you out of here, find you some clothes that don’t look like you’ve been dragged through a briar patch, and get you some breakfast. We’ll figure out our next move.”
Katherine nodded, relieved. “Thank you, Jesse. You’re a true-blue fellow, all right.”
Jesse put out his cigarette, took her by the hand, and led her out of the dormitory, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
He watched as she skipped down the hall ahead of him, her feet barely touching the ground. He shook his head and smiled to himself. That girl was something else, he thought. But for now, he had more pressing matters to attend to. He had to get dressed and check in with Ro. He had a feeling that today was going to be a long one.
It was all out in the open that morning after breakfast. Jesse had swiftly escorted Katherine back to her quarters in the nick of time, hustling back to his chambers with ten minutes to spare. Grim and Raffi, along with most of the lads in Ward 9, were already awake. Just ten minutes before the bell, pandemonium was already afoot.
Some were taking early showers, while others frantically pulled on their garments, eager to avoid doing so later in front of the stern matron. Bedlam was complete.
Jesse found Grim looking like a sack of potatoes, bags under his eyes, slowly pulling up his suspenders with none of the urgency displayed by the other boys. He yawned and stretched out his arms, not bothering to inquire about the little miss they'd smuggled in the night prior. He'd heard every word, of course.
"Can you tell me," asked Ro Moretti, his tone so gentle it could soothe a bear's aches and pains, "how your lovely nightgown came to be ruined so?"
Now clad in her Refuge uniform, Katherine was seated in a cozy corner she'd discovered on the sixth floor - once a dusty storage area with old books and furniture draped in white sheets. Ro was perched on the dusty sofa across from the wee lass, lounging on an ancient ladder. Katherine had a tiny cup of potent coffee in her hands, which Raffi had managed to sneak in for her at her request. And a cigarette, which he wasn't too thrilled about, but after much cajoling, he granted the little imp. She lit the fag with a grace that suggested she'd done it a thousand times before, her delicate hands clutching it tightly, and watched the flame flicker before extinguishing it.
"She's as bad as you," Ro muttered to Jesse. "It's as if those same jade eyes were scouring for sense in a tongue of fire."
It was a moment that caught Jesse off guard, as Katherine's face turned a fiery shade of red at the comment made. But the color vanished from her cheeks as quickly as it had appeared. It reminded Jesse of when Colm had asked young Matthew if he remembered to fetch firewood as he was told and the look of terror on the boy's face when he had forgotten. Jesse had then caught his frantic eye and smirked encouragingly at him from where he sat, peeling potatoes, having gathered a bundle himself earlier in the day. This spared the boy a good whipping with Colm's belt. Jesse noticed that same flicker of fear on Katherine's face at that moment, as if she had been caught in the act of some wrongdoing. This made Jesse's heart waver.
“The braids suit you," Jesse offered kindly from beside Ro, gesturing to Katherine's braids, which he had fastened for her. "You look lovely."
Katherine seemed unfazed by the words of praise as if they were mere water off a duck's back, and all she did was lift her chin in response, blinking. Jesse knew most little girls swoon over compliments like that. Colleen sure did. But another sinking feeling washed over him as he wondered if Katherine Moore had been cursed with meaningless compliments before until the thrill had worn off. Perhaps she had been the recipient of admiration and even more disturbing vulgarities.
"My mother has hair like mine, and she's always been able to tame it better than I. How tall are you?" Katherine asked distractedly, peering as if studying an invisible measuring device beside Jesse. "You're bigger than my papa, I think. I bet you can reach anything you damn please."
"Ladies shouldn't use such language," Jesse said in quiet amusement.
"I'm not a lady," Katherine corrected him, giving the smoking cigarette to Grim for a puff. She nodded to Ro. "Not like her, anyway. She's a real lady."
"Oh?" Ro queried, with a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, as Grim gaped dumbly at the cigarette, clearly bewildered by the sight of a little girl smoking. "Why is that?"
Katherine cocked her head, met Ro's curious gaze with a cold stare of her own, as if the answer was self-evident. "I ain't got the curse yet."
"What curse?" Grim inquired in genuine confusion, glancing from Katherine to Ro. "What kind of curse?"
Katherine arched a delicate eyebrow at him and then plucked the cigarette from his fingers, giving a nonchalant shrug as she returned it to her lips. "Mm," she began, exhaling a hazy puff of warm smoke. "Perhaps it ain't appropriate for ladies to explain such things to boys, neither."
Jesse could discern the sarcasm aimed not so subtly at him. Katherine spoke like a young woman already. Jesse fretted whether it was due to her keeping company with grown men and paying for said company. The very notion caused his jaw to clench, which did not go unnoticed by the others present. Regardless of the reason, Jesse knew he couldn't converse with her the way he did with Colleen, even though they were the same age. It was clear that Katherine didn't view herself as a child of eight, closer to Jesse's seventeen than farther from it. Typically, Jesse enjoyed being challenged in conversation, striving to stay two steps ahead. However, in this instance, he felt foolish and trapped at an awkward depth.
"I see why you might feel uneasy," Jesse stated, "considering your state last night. But if you help us, we can help you."
"Where did you live before coming here, Katherine?" Ro inquired softly. "You're such a sweet little girl."
Katherine's plump lips pursed hesitantly. It struck Jesse then, as it had many times before with Colleen, that she was exceedingly pretty. That realization only caused him more worry, tying his stomach in knots.
"In a flat north of Elizabeth Street with my parents," she responded uninterestedly. "But I can't never go home again."
"Is that so?" Jesse prompted. "If you tell us the truth, things will go more smoothly."
The petulant mouth quivered again, and she began weaving a tale. Her voice trembled as if reciting tragic lines from a play. Yet something was amiss, at least in tone.
"I won't ever do it again. My father came home drunk from the pub, and he battered my mother with his cane. He chased after me, too, but I managed to escape by leaping from my bed and down the fire escape."
Jesse tried to meet Ro's dark eyes while Grim exchanged a puzzled glance with Raffi. Yet Ro's gaze remained steadfastly fixed upon Katherine.
"He struck her?" Raffi repeated gravely.
"Mother's head was bleeding," Katherine murmured. "She had just tucked me into bed, and then she was screaming in agony when he struck her. He becomes a demon after a few pints, but I had never seen him like that before. Usually, he throws objects about the house, whatever he can get his hands on. He had never laid a hand on either of us before. Mother instructed me to find a safe place to sleep until she could summon me again after he had calmed down. The cop discovered me while I was fleeing and brought me here only last week."
She paused to catch her breath and then took another puff of her cigarette and a sip of her steaming coffee, shrugging her shoulders. Her gaze was fixed solely on the steam curling from the cup.
Jesse let her words sink in slowly as she hurled them at him. He observed her finally setting down the cup and fiddling with a small gold locket around her neck, playing with the chain almost compulsively. A nervous habit, he surmised.
She had painted a vividly gruesome picture. It was outrageous yet entirely believable. Numerous children had grown up in similar households, especially if alcohol had been the downfall of one or both parents. Jesse had seen it firsthand. The story was not inconceivable.
It wasn't rightly hers. Jesse pondered the bruises on her knees. He pondered how she'd let two strange, older boys undress her with such ease. And he pondered how a girl of Italian-American stock could call her ma "mother." Shouldn't it be "mama?" he thought to himself
"Well, now," spoke Jesse, having spent most of his days with a brother whose lies flowed like a river, "we ought to give it another go. Stay calm with kinfolk. Just spill the beans on what went down last night."
Katherine's gaze swiveled from the coffee to Jesse, her lips parting like a fish out of water. Jesse could see she was a dab hand at spinning tales, but even the finest actors can't fabricate a reaction to being caught out. Nevertheless, Jesse wasn't about to let her off the hook. Surviving often entailed lying through life until the lies became your truth.
"Nay," she said, her voice shaky. "It's a secret. Just like your own." She flicked her eyes to Ro, emphasizing her point.
"Don't worry," crooned Ro. "We won't judge you. You can confide in us. You're in good company, I assure you."
"I do wish I hadn't done it," Katherine breathed, her voice breaking like fragile glass. She pinched her opposite wrist between her nails. "I wish I hadn't been so..."
"What is it, bambina?"
“Difficult,” she mumbled. “But that boy—he’d been drinking, and he had a bottle with him, kept sipping it. He offered me some, too. I wouldn’t say I liked the taste, so I spit it out, and he got mad and doused me with the stuff. He’d lost his mind. He had a pocket knife and showed me how sharp the blade was. Flipping it through his fingers, he was savage-like. He said he’d cut my nightgown off if I didn’t unbutton it for him, and he began tearing at the fabric with the blade, and I told him to leave me alone because I’d only just…I’d only just done him a favor. Alright? He wouldn’t stop and pour the rest of the bottle on me, so my nightdress. He nearly stabbed me in the process. So I yelled for help, and I kicked him as hard as I could. That’s when he…he hit his head on the bed railing, and he said to hell with me… other girls were easier…Other girls heard me yelling and woke up, and while he was distracted with them, I ran. That’s how you found me. I didn’t know him, I promise, and I didn’t ask him to visit. He might’ve stabbed me.”
Her words cut short with a girlish gasp, and Ro was at Katherine's side in a flash, soothingly patting her back. Ro, too, knew there had to be some truth to the story as the others did. A girl of Katherine's age wouldn't conjure such horrors out of thin air.
Dousing her nightdress with alcohol to facilitate the cut, as strange as that logic was, seemed natural. But there were inconsistencies.
"Katherine, that's dreadful," Jesse spoke gravely. "But I reckon you girls are locked in your dorms at night. No boy could get in without a key, and you couldn't get out either. Only guards and matrons have keys. But if there's any truth to what you're saying, and some boy got hold of a key, you don't have to protect him. We can go to the warden and make sure the boy who did this is punished."
In a flash, Katherine's countenance shifted, and she leaped off the ladder, landing on her feet. With a vigorous backswing of her right foot, she sent the ladder tumbling with a resounding crash. But as quickly as it had fallen, Katherine looked at it with instant remorse, as if a demon had possessed her at that moment. She gazed down at her guilt-ridden foot, spinning her ankle self-consciously.
"No, no, don't do that. Don't go to the warden, don't tell," she begged with a tremble. "I'm fine. It was nothing. It wasn't as terrible as I made it out to be."
“Then how come—”
"I made it all up! I swear, I let my imagination get the best of me again, and...I don't know why I do what I do. Please don't tell anyone. I don't want to get into trouble. It'll be my fault. Please. I'll get you more cigarettes. I'm good at lifting things. Honest—”
“Hold on a minute,” Jesse interjected, “let’s try this again.”
Katherine’s trembling chin steadied as she gathered her courage. “I knew it was coming,” she began, “it goes down the row, and I was seventh over. I haven’t slept since the first night because I’ve been dreading it. She said I’ll get used to it, but I don’t think anyone should. All the rest I told you is true, except for one thing. It wasn't one of the boys who did it, but I won’t say who it was. You don’t have to worry about me because I took the key from his pocket. I told you I could lift anything without getting caught. I snuck out, and I thought he might have followed me. I was covered in his blood, but I couldn’t light a match because I might catch fire."
Grim's mouth formed an ‘O’ shape in surprise.
Raffi's eyebrows furrowed, his lips twisting as if he was trying to untangle a knot. "His blood?" he repeated, incredulous.
Katherine's head bobbed like a cork in a raging sea. "Jesus' blood."
Ro extended her handkerchief, offering it to Katherine to wipe away her tears, while Jesse muttered, "Sacramental wine. That's what you were soaked in. I couldn't see it under the red flannel. That's what he was swilling? Church wine?"
Katherine's gaze darted from one face to another, her eyes flickering like a spooked fawn's. She desperately sought solace from the boy with the matching pair of greens. "Please don't say a word, Jesse. I'll be okay."
The room plunged into silence, except for the ticking clock. Grim finally cleared his throat. "Our lips are sealed," he declared, scanning the others for agreement. "You can trust us," he promised.
Katherine's mouth curved into a fragile smile, her eyes shimmering with gratitude. "Thank you," she whispered.
Jesse felt a surge of protectiveness towards Katherine, knowing he had to stand up for her. He draped an arm around her bony shoulders and glared at the group. "We stick together," he stated firmly. "And we'll stand by Katherine."
Katherine had stolen the key from the grip of Reverend Coster, an old pastor who made weekly rounds to bless the island inmates, bringing communion wine to share among some of the younger ones under a slew of rigorous regulations. It was during one of these pious visits when Katherine hatched her scheme. She spotted the Reverend keeping his watch and keychain in his pocket, which he had cautioned her about being too curious about before. But she summoned her courage and decided it was worth risking retribution to make a run for it from the girls' dormitory that very night.
While Reverend Coster was distracted by another girl, Katherine swiftly swiped the keychain from his pocket. Mercifully, he didn't detect her right away, but by a stroke of bad luck, he must have figured out what had transpired because he instantly hollered for her, but it was too late. She had already bolted out of the room. She could sense his wrathful gaze and hear his resounding voice behind her, but she kept running, convinced he would capture her. Her heart was pounding like a drum.
She had no clue where to go or what to do next until Jesse came to her rescue.
Katherine surveyed their countenances, still a mite wary of their responses. Grim and Raffi beamed warmly at her while Ro and Jesse's mien softened in understanding, offering gentle glances of solace.
"I know it may not have been kosher of me to pilfer his key," Katherine confessed in a low murmur, "but I was desperate to flee, and that's why I took such a bold step." She paused for a moment before resuming in a mournful whisper. "I don't regret it, but that doesn't make me a bad sort."
"Where's the key now?" Raffi wondered.
"Just to be safe," Katherine continued, "I decided to hide the keychain before Reverend Coster could find it."
She had hurried through the corridors that morning, seeking a cranny to conceal the stolen key. After swerving around sundry corners, she stumbled upon an old wardrobe in a forsaken storeroom near the back of the fifth floor. Katherine cleared away some crates, pried open the cabinet, and found a little drawer at the bottom. It's a splendid covert for now. She deposited the key inside, closed the drawer, and sighed, relieved. It was no longer on her person.
Her heart still thumped when she finished the tale. The four older kids pledged to keep her secret safe. She was one of their own, and they vowed to watch over each other, no matter the cost. Katherine smiled in thanks, grateful for their kindness and support. Never before had she felt so cherished and accepted.
"Of course, solnyshka," Jesse said, clasping her hand. "No harm will come to you while I'm here."
Katherine exhaled deeply, content. A strange sense of freedom flowed within her veins for the first time since she'd been incarcerated. She swore that this moment would remain etched in her memory regardless of how long she stayed there.
Chapter 13: Cruel Island
Summary:
“Yeah, that’ll do fine,” Jesse said with an affirmative nod. “Kate, you’ll sleep in my bed with me, okay?”
“That’s a risk…” Kate heard another boy mumble.
“If she’s found out—which she won’t be—I’ll get in trouble, not any of you,” Jesse promised, looking at Kate expectantly. “Well, what’s it to be? Bunk mates?”
“If you’re sure,” Kate whispered, reaching up to feel her necklace again and returning empty.
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
December 1891
Randall's Island, NY
Grim Krause didn't give a tinker's cuss that the little slip of a girl with raven locks was peeking at him from several rows ahead. The schoolroom was packed to the rafters with a motley crew of children from the first and second-floor dormitories and a fair share of older inmates from the third and fourth. Religious instruction was the order of the day, and it was carried out communally in two sections: one at eight in the morning and the other resuming after lunch. Grim had been assigned to the morning session, seated on an extended bench next to Jesse Tracey and Raffi Williams, who were both four years his senior. Raffi was slumped over his open Bible on the table, following along as Reverend Coster held court over the classroom with his fire and brimstone voice. Jesse, meanwhile, was doodling in the margins of his copy, seeming entirely removed from the scene.
Grim cast his gaze from the dragon sketch that Jesse was fashioning and back to Kate, who remained fixated on him with her curious eyes. He attempted a courteous grin, but she merely returned his stare before her attention darted to Jesse's sluggish pencil as it trailed over the sacred text.
“Miss Moore,” the matron’s voice sibilated, causing the child’s head to jerk back to the front.
Kate stared at the creases on the matron’s face as she rifled through her Bible’s pages.
“Have you been paying any heed?” she murmured while the reverend continued his recitation to the rest of the class. “Can you read, child?”
Kate nodded.
“Well, if you ever aspire to enter the gates of Heaven, you’ll do as you’re bid. Dwell in the Lord’s word, and He’ll bestow his blessings upon you,” preached the matron.
“How?” Kate inquired at a standard pitch, earning a ‘hush’ motion from the teacher.
The matron beamed at Kate, then adjusted another girl’s Bible, which she had unknowingly been perusing upside-down. "I know this is only your second week, but you must be very quiet in this class," the matron whispered just above a murmur, primarily to herself. "And very good."
Kate gazed upon the elderly dame, sensing a smidge of trepidation in her bosom. "I ain't savvyin' what you mean," she uttered.
"You must be a good girl, child," the matron replied as the reverend once again called for hush and began addressing the girls.
"Why?" Kate asked.
"Because the Almighty will grant you his blessings when you ascend to Heaven, a place you wish to enter, right? That's why you must be good now."
"But I don't want to live in Heaven."
"What?" the woman gasped in disbelief.
“I ain’t keen on that place. It’s tedious,” muttered Kate.
The reverend’s baritone voice trailed off, and the matron swiveled her head to look at Kate.
Kate heaved a sigh, never averting her stare from the woman’s eyes.
“Pardon me, child. What did you say?” The matron inquired, this time in a softer tone.
“I said, ‘Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Miller,” Kate replied, then cast her gaze toward Reverend Coster, whose voice remained low and steady yet tinged with a dramatic rhythm, like he was fixing to breathe fire on the whole lot of them.
The class rambled on, and Grim mainly kept to himself. Nevertheless, Kate kept on shooting glances, hoping to nab his attention. Later, as the schoolroom was being cleaned, Kate waited until Mrs. Miller was in the other room, listening to other children recite the scriptures they had been learning that morning. She hurried up the steps to the boys’ dormitory.
“Hi,” she whispered to Grim, sitting on Jesse’s bed, cleaning his boots with a rag and staring at the gray window.
“Hi, yourself,” Grim greeted in kind, looking up from his work as Kate crossed the room to him and smiled politely.
“I know you weren’t paying attention,” Kate said, hugging her Bible tightly.
Grim looked down for a moment, feeling a little awkward under her stare. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “I was thinking about something else.”
“Thinking, huh?” She folded her arms.
“That book doesn’t do me much good,” he whispered, nodding to her Bible.
To Grim’s surprise, Kate laughed. “Yeah, me neither.”
“Hey, little miss, we gotta talk,” Jesse said as he came up beside her, holding a different pair of shoes. He smiled at Grim. “Grim, when you’re finished with those, you mind doing these, too?”
Grim smiled back. “Sure.”
Kate frowned, her dark eyes sparkling. “No, we don’t,” she said, elbowing Jesse’s leg when he reached down to take her hand. “What’s there to say?”
Jesse shook his head. “A whole lot,” he said, handing Grim the other pair of shoes. “And I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m some villain for it.”
“A villain,” Grim echoed in confusion. He looked up at Jesse with a cocked eyebrow. “What happened?”
“A whole lot,” Kate mimicked Jesse, looking between them.
“Oh, so you admit it?” Jesse asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Jesse, please, we don’t need to talk about it,” she said, shoving the Bible under Grim’s bed like a cursed talisman. “I won’t tell anyone. I’m good at keeping secrets, remember?”
“Who says you ain’t?” He smiled slightly but noticed how she ducked her face as if hiding her eyes from him. “Come on, let’s go somewhere we can have a proper conversation, hm?”
Kate shrugged, flinching when Jesse’s hand grazed her shoulder. Grim shot Jesse a look. “We’ll be right back. It’s alright,” Jesse reassured him, reluctantly dropping his hand from Kate’s bony arm and letting her lead him out of the dorm. They emerged into the hall and walked a little way until Jesse knelt beside a window, meeting her identical green eyes. Kate perched herself on the windowsill and shifted uncomfortably while Jesse drew a deep breath.
“We gotta discuss yesterday.”
“Must we?”
“Yeah.” Jesse pursed his lips, chewing on his words carefully before spitting them out. “Listen, adults do things not meant for young eyes.” He paused, still trying to meet Kate’s fleeting eyes. “And that—hey,” he tilted his head, finally meeting her gaze and bringing her focus back to him, “what Ro and I were doin’…that was one of those things.”
Kate took a loose strand of hair from her braid and toyed with it absently. Last evening, Kate had come up to her secret nook on the sixth floor to read, but she’d paused when she heard strange noises from the other side.
“Katherine, listen to me.”
Kate froze. She deliberately tossed her braid over her shoulder and raised her eyes to Jesse.
She recalled seeing the panic in his eyes when she hesitantly pushed open the door. She heard Ro’s rattling of expletives in Italian, both she and Jesse hurriedly adjusting their clothes and catching their breath. Ro tried approaching Kate, still trembling, and buttoning her dress in record time. Kate could only stare back at them blankly.
“Katerina, darling?” Ro had cooed, her voice stilted. She had no idea how long Kate had been standing in the doorway. “Did you need something? Are you alright?”
Kate just stared at her, then she turned and walked away, closing the door behind her, catching the string of curses and apologies Jesse threw to deaf ears.
“See,” Jesse continued after an awkward pause, “when two adults love each other very, very much, they like to express that love physically—”
“I know that already,” Kate interrupted him, giving an exasperated sigh. “But you weren’t kissing in bed with no clothes.” Her voice grew hoarse as she recounted the scene, a flicker of horror in her eyes, making Jesse’s heart falter. “You were hurting her.”
Those words made Jesse want to hash his breakfast. “What?”
“She was screaming.” Kate looked near tears as she went on shakily. She sniffled once and then recoiled when Jesse moved to tilt her chin up. “How come you had to do that? You were hurting her, and Ro is a nice girl! She loves you! Her letters said so!”
Jesse cast a bewildered glance at Kate, who met him with an indignant twinkle in her eyes. “I thought you swore off love, did you not?” Jesse muttered, scarcely able to conceal his astonishment.
Kate shrugged dismissively.
"What Ro and I do, Katherine…it ain’t bad things. We get consent from one another to do them.”
“How come you aren’t married?”
“Well, we could get married, I reckon, if—"
“What’s consent?” Kate inquired, already jumping to the next word of interest. Her expression was now one of curiosity rather than suspicion, a change that brought Jesse some respite.
“Consent, solnyshka,” Jesse explained, struggling to clarify the concept to an eight-year-old girl. “Before doing anything to someone else, like a hug or a kiss, it’s essential to ask for their consent.”
Kate nodded, albeit still confused. “But why should we ask permission to give hugs? Don’t folks enjoy them?”
“Some may not fancy hugs or want them only in certain situations,” Jesse elaborated, watching with satisfaction as Kate quickly caught on. “It’s important to respect their wishes and ask permission first. If they refuse, you must recognize their decision and find a different way to express your affection.”
Though Kate seemed to comprehend the principle, she still had several questions. “What if someone tries to kiss me, and I don’t want it?”
“That’s okay,” Jesse reassured her. “You have the right to refuse touch if it makes you feel funny. You can politely tell them you don’t want a kiss and that they should respect your wishes. If someone doesn’t, you can always ask me or Raffi for help.”
Kate’s gaze was fixed on her shoes. “I see. But what about things other than kisses?”
Jesse tried to smile, relieved that at least she was raising insightful questions. “Consent applies to all manner of circumstances, not merely touch. You should ask permission before sharing secrets, borrowing things, or playing games. Remember that.”
Kate tilted her head, appearing somewhat proud of herself for understanding such a profound concept in her estimate. “Do you swear, Jesse?” Kate finally asked, hopping off the windowsill and allowing Jesse to help her. “Do you swear you sought Ro’s consent?”
“I swear,” Jesse pledged.
“And did she grant you her permission?”
“She did,” he affirmed. “You can ask her, too, if you like.”
Kate sighed, her pout giving way to the most charming grin Jesse had ever beheld. “Maybe I will, just to keep you honest.”
And ask Ro, she did. When Jesse found Kate in the kitchens later that evening—where Ro and a few other older girls had taken up work with the cooks—he was met with a hearty cloud of lemon zest and nutmeg. After Jesse shed his coat, the one he’d worn outside shoveling snow, he fixed his gaze upon the little girl of some seven or eight summers, give or take a year. Her birthday was shrouded in mystery. Jesse could not be sure. It then dawned on him that an independent spirit like Kate should choose a day to celebrate as her own, much like Grim Krause selected his birthdate since he didn’t rightly know his real one.
“Hiya, Jesse.”
The grin on Kate’s face was big enough to rival a lighthouse on the banks of the East River to ward off any unsuspecting vessel that dared to traverse through choppy waters. When she was so pleased, Kate could flash a bright smile that would blind a person quicker than staring at the sun. And she had been doing so more often of late. Her smile transformed her entire visage from a plain and severe countenance to a gentle and graceful mien with supple contours. Her lustrous tresses, a deep brown hue, were artfully coifed in a single plait, giving her an air of country charm.
Ever since she noticed the little string of hemp around Ro’s ring finger, she’d asked Ro such questions as “Will you have a real wedding when you get out?” and “Can I come live with you after you’re married?” Jesse had fastened the string around Ro’s finger the night prior—a placeholder for a real married band—and swore she was the only girl for him.
And I haven’t bothered if you find someone else after I’m gone, he’d added once she swore the same. My ghost won’t be the jealous sort.
When Kate’s green orbs locked onto Jesse’s, her jubilant face plummeted to the ground with the swiftness of a fiery meteor, crashing down to earth in a shower of disappointment.
“Jesse?”
“It’s okay. I’m fine. Only…Grim ain’t.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’ve got coffee made?” Jesse asked of Ro. His voice sounded oddly distant. “If coffee ain’t forthcoming, might I trouble you for a drop of whiskey from the cabinet?”
Ro made a familiar tongue-flicking sound against the roof of her mouth that bespoke her deep concern for the matter, yet she elected to table the discussion for the time being. Promptly, water was fetched from a pitcher and poured into the coffee pot.
Jesse strolled over to the table and settled in a chair, running his hand through his messy locks of ink black. Just then, Kate’s dainty fingers grazed his arm, and in no time flat, a glass of whiskey materialized before him.
A culinary endeavor of grandiose proportions was afoot on the kitchen table. From the looks of it, some pastries were in the works, with trays bearing pools of various spices, grinds, and a whipped batter. Then it hit Jesse that it was Sunday and that Kate had chosen to skip chapel to help out in the kitchen, a kindness made possibly by the generosity of Mrs. Christine Miller. Now, it all made sense.
“The pastries are for Reverend Coster?” Jesse asked. He saw no use in mustering a grin, for Kate could read him like a Tammany political cartoon.
Her pert little nose twitched as she pondered the best action to deal with the older boy. A struggle between investigating and composure seemed to be raging in her head. As a former street urchin who’d survived the vile abuse of her mother at home, Kate is well-versed in the art of handling people. But Kate has a talent all her own.
“I reckoned it’ll be a grand old time to apologize for cussin’ so in class the other day, and Ro didn’t seem to mind,” she chirped, narrowing her eyes and flashing a dimpled smile. “I couldn’t help it. You should’ve seen how he laid into Grim for being unable to read his passage aloud. That reverend was a regular, right-down bully. But I can’t let Grim get a whipping for illiteracy. I figured the treats would help Reverend Coster find it in his heart to forgive the two of us.”
Jesse exhaled a breath trapped within his throat without his knowing. It seemed that, at least for a little while, she was willing to indulge his pretense that everything was on the level. A crease of worry had etched itself into her brows, but she bravely dipped the wooden spoon into the batter bowl and handed it to him.
Jesse swore to the heavens above that he wished Katherine Moore had never been subjected to the horrors of the Refuge and used as a plaything for the vile desires of guards. The mere thought sickened him to his core. But there were times when her unnervingly mature demeanor came off as an unexpected relief, and he found himself grateful for it, even though he’d have traded it all in for a childlike tantrum at the drop of a hat. The ones like Colleen threw.
Obediently, Jesse stuck the spoon in his mouth.
“Well, either you or perhaps Ro is the finest chef I’ve yet had the pleasure of knowing,” Jesse declared. The little girl beamed at him, a genuine smile adorning her face. The mother of his child cast a worried glance his way.
Not now, he mouthed to her.
She nodded understanding before setting the coffee pot on the stove. As Jesse stirred the batter, his thoughts drifted back to his childhood before he became like Kate, with parents to shelter and protect him. Oh, how blissfully ignorant he was of the dangers that lurked in the world, shielded as he was by others. And then his mind turned to his brother Matthew Tracey, with his impressive vocabulary of the vilest slang, slow smile, and round green eyes. The haunting absence of his presence weighed heavily upon Jesse.
With a deep breath that seemed to penetrate down to his feet, Jesse shook off his reverie and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
“You’ve been at the sewing machines, haven’t you?”
Kate’s lips puckered. “And how did you come to that astute conclusion?”
“Because I can see three little needle pricks on your right hand, solnyshka, and because you seem to be having some trouble finishing off the top buttons on your dress,” he said with a knowing grin.
“And what’s to that?” she scoffed. “You’ve been poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, like a regular nosy parker.”
“That’s a low blow,” Jesse protested. “Why do you gotta say such a thing?”
“Jesse, it’s plain as day,” she retorted. “Anyone could have been learning to sew on this here uniform. You passed by the sewing room yesterday and peered in through the window. I spied your tattoos, of course,” she added with a rueful shake. “I’m terrible at the sewing machines.”
A smile tugged on the corners of Jesse’s mouth, and for a moment, life didn’t seem quite so dire. “Tell me how you’ve been getting on, won’t you?” Jesse requested.
Kate took Jesse for a boy in desperate straits, so she obliged him. She had a heart as big as the Mississippi.
After some time, when the pastries were cooling and waiting to be decorated, Jesse had his fill of stories about spiders, school lessons, and the despicable older boy Jesse’s age—Moses Cassidy—who called her friend Hanna stupid for not knowing English, how he called a dark-skinned girl of fifteen—Josie-Mae—a pretty-lipped peach and pulled her hair.
Jesse began to feel like himself again. Ro listened intently, nodding as Jesse proposed that the sorry brute should be teased mercilessly for giving Josie-Mae a second glance and questioned in front of his cronies why he was ogling her in the first place. It seemed that all it took to pull Jesse back from the brink of insanity were some whiskey by his side and a pair of faithful companions keeping a close eye on him. It was a nice thing to know, comforting even. He was even prouder to know that Kate had walloped Moses in the face with her spelling book and told him to chase himself. This made Hanna laugh while Josie-Mae got up and moved to a different bench to work on her arithmetic. Kate reported Moses Cassidy seemed quiet after that, disappointed even.
“Say, you feelin’ spry and happy here?” Jesse said. “On the whole?”
Kate’s chin gave a forceful nod after a second or two. “I’m as happy as a clam. You wouldn’t believe how happy.” It was sarcasm again. “I’m dancing away like there’s no tomorrow.”
Biting his lip, Jesse paused. Kate isn’t supposed to lie for Jesse’s sake because he is always ready to shoulder whatever troubles she has. But Kate had a knack for whipping up lies like they were iron shields to hide behind or little boats to keep herself afloat. Jesse couldn’t tell whether her last tall tale was for her benefit or his, and he didn’t know how to ask without being too coarse. It was troubling him something fierce, especially after her outburst that morning when she discovered her locket missing.
It had been quite the to-do. The night prior had been dark and quiet, and all the girls were fast asleep in their cots. Kate had been tossing and turning, unable to sleep after hearing Yetta Rosenbloom’s cries for the past half-hour following a visit from one of the night guards.
Julia, Kate’s ‘best and prettiest friend’ as she’d told Jesse, had given her the beautiful necklace that past year. It was a shiny silver chain and had a little heart-shaped pendant at the end. Kate loved it more than anything she’d ever owned and promised Julia that she’d wear it daily.
But that night, as she reached for her neck to feel the necklace, she felt bare skin. Her heart sank, and she quickly sat up in her cot. She knew something terrible had happened.
Kate frantically searched her cot, hoping the necklace had just slipped off during the night. But it was nowhere to be found. She started to panic, wondering where her precious gift could have gone.
Looking around the dark room, Kate noticed the dormitory door was ajar. She knew immediately what had happened—someone had come in and stolen her necklace—someone with a key.
She felt angry tears pierce her eyes, hurt that a staff member would do such a thing.
Kate knew she had to tell Mrs. Miller but didn’t want to wake anyone else up. She quietly slipped out of her cot and tiptoed across the room. As she passed Yetta’s cot, she paused momentarily, feeling guilty. The girl’s cries slowly ceased, and she fell asleep.
She avoided the creaking floorboards as best she could, reaching Mrs. Miller’s room and knocking softly on the door. After some time, the matron opened the door and looked down at little Kate with a confused frown.
“What is it, child?” she asked.
Kate hesitated for a moment, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. “My necklace is gone,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mrs. Miller’s expression softened, and she put an old hand on Kate’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that, baby. We’ll look for it first thing in the morning,” she assured the girl. “But right now, you’d best get back to bed.”
Kate felt a sense of relief knowing that something would be done, but she also felt gutted and empty without her beloved necklace. She couldn’t wait for morning to come, hoping the thief would be caught and her necklace returned to her, like in one of those detective dime novels.
On her way back to the dorm, somewhat sad, Kate caught sight of her. Mrs. Anderson. The witch of Randall’s Island.
She was a woman of stunning beauty, with long blonde hair and piercing gray eyes that seemed to look right through a person. But beneath that soft exterior lay a different nature that made folks tremble, weak in the knees.
Kate saw the way the moon cast eerie shadows along the corridor just as Mrs. Anderson made her way out of Jesse’s dormitory. Something was in her hands. It looked to be cloth. But as soon as she saw Kate, she tucked it behind her. Her demeanor changed. She stood tall and stern, eyes scanning the corridor for any signs of trouble. Walking over and standing before Kate, the matron looked down at the girl with curiosity and menace.
“What are you doing out of bed, little girl?” she asked, her voice cold and intimidating. Kate cringed at her breath, something bitter that Kate couldn’t quite place.
Kate looked up at her, fear evident in her eyes.
“I-I couldn’t sleep,” she stuttered, not wanting to get Mrs. Miller in trouble.
The matron leaned in closer, her foul, hot breath against the girl’s face. Kate winced and angled her head away.
She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “I…I just wanted to look out the big window,” she finally managed to whisper, pointing to the large, arched window at the opposite end of the corridor. “It has a nice view of the city. I can’t picture it from my dorm.”
Mrs. Anderson studied her and then chuckled, but there was no humor. She leaned in closer, her eyes burning into the little girl’s. “Do you know what happens to scrawny little girls who tell lies, right?” she asked, her voice in a low whisper.
Kate shook her head, her eyes brimming with water again, frustrated that she couldn’t control her emotions, as did Jesse or Raffi.
“They get punished,” Mrs. Anderson said, a hint of a smile on her lips.
Kate’s heart pounded in her chest as Mrs. Anderson stared at her. She was so close that Kate could see every golden fiber in her perfectly coifed hair. She looked like she belonged in a high society women’s catalog rather than a reformatory for troubled youth. Her eyes and mouth shined in the light of her kerosine lamp. Kate didn’t know what would happen next but knew it wouldn’t be good.
“Wait a minute,” the frown on the matron’s pouty lips curled into a ghoulish smirk, “were you on your way for a little rendez-vous yourself? You were, weren’t you? Just who do you think you are?”
Kate trembled in fear, unsure of what Mrs. Anderson was talking about. “A round what?” Kate echoed, having never heard the term before. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“You should be sorry,” she said, her voice growing cool despite the smirk. She eyed Kate up and down, observing her apple cheeks and dark curls. “You’re nothing but a worthless little tramp. And if you dare to sneak out of bed again, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
She longed deeply to sprint past Mrs. Anderson and into the boys’ dorm. She wanted to wake up Jesse. She was tired of spending nights in her dormitory, surrounded by other girls pulled by the hair and tossed out the door at night for some unknown destination. The girls returned with handprints from night guards on their faces, bruises they tried to hide beneath their pretty brunette ringlets, wavy red hair, or straight blonde tresses. They looked like porcelain dolls that had fallen out of favor with their children.
Kate had overheard Raffi telling another boy that the girls had sealed their fates because they’d fallen. It didn’t matter how. They were different from Ro, Kate knew. Thirty lovely minutes with Jesse on a back staircase, as she’d put it, was different than five agonizing minutes with a guard in the dead of night. Kate had no regard for what that meant. She continued to ignore the bleak prison around her. One day, she wrestled a rat. Another day, she leaped from one bed to the other as though they were ice floats. She did cartwheels down the halls. The matrons tried their very best to stop her. They had to wonder whether she could be so remarkably naïve or if she was trying to break her neck, thinking somewhat irrationally that she would get out of there early.
A visiting priest once waved his rosary over her—swearing she’d end up in limbo sure as the Lord made green apples. When Kate said she didn’t believe in such places, the priest patted her head and moved on.
“Wicked little brat,” Moses Cassidy sneered Kate’s way when she passed him in the hallways.
“You ought to learn my name,” she said stiffly, head held high and shoulders squared. “I have the displeasure of knowing yours, after all.”
The seventeen-year-old’s gang of friends snickered as he bent down at her eye level. “Let’s hear it then.”
“It’s Katherine Moore.” Kate stood straight but felt herself wilt under his unimpressed eyebrow raise and subsequent smirk.
“Kitty-cat,” he finally produced from the more idiotic recesses of his adolescent mind, “suits you.”
She wasn’t particularly fond of Moses at all. He had what Reverend Coster called ‘a dangerous charm.’ One that he warned several girls about. Moses waited for Josie-Mae on the second-floor stairway every day after religion class. Kate would always hear him begging her to come to the washroom with him for a kiss. Kate watched Josie-Mae ignore him every time with a ruffle and turn of her chin. But one afternoon, Kate saw the older girl give in, hoping he would go away. The next day, Moses was no longer on the second-floor staircase and wasn’t there for the following days. Josie-Mae, Kate noticed, grew more melancholic each day he was absent.
She had become temporarily distracted from his absence when Jesse’s siblings visited the island—a petite blonde, dimpled girl about her age and a rather unfriendly-looking boy of twelve with a smug swagger. He received a smack to his head from Mr. Whalen for cursing. Such an action left Jesse fuming. Kate was unable to sit in on the visit.
When Moses reappeared a week later, with two black eyes and a devilish grin flashed at Kate, he took his place in the empty seat beside Josie-Mae as if he’d never been gone. “How’s life, Kitty-cat,” he’d asked Kate, turning around on the bench and tossing a small piece of chalk at Kate’s desk. “Miss me?”
“Not particularly,” Kate had responded, moving over for Grim to sit beside her. “I was hoping they’d moved you to The Tombs.”
Moses looked from Kate to Grim and then absently tucked a wild strand of Josie-Mae’s raven curls behind her ear. “Krause is lookin’ out for you, I see,” he observed, narrowing his eyes at Kate and then opening his hand and nodding to the chalk he’d tossed at her. “You wanna give it back?”
Kate picked it up and hurled it back at him as hard as possible. Moses seemed to pluck it out of the air like a magic trick and shook his hand as if it hurt. “Killer arm, Kitty-cat,” he teased in his gravelly voice. “Maybe the Giants have a spot for you in the line-up.” He set the chalk down and offered the hand to Josie-Mae. “Kiss it, will you?”
Josie-Mae turned up her nose again and poured over her spelling book and slate.
“I’ll kiss it, Cassidy,” Jesse interjected, having just strolled into the classroom and grabbed Moses’ wrist, dragging his tongue all over the palm as the other boy protested and tried to yank it away. Raffi rolled his eyes behind him and moved past to sit on Kate's other side. Jesse let go of Moses’ hand, and the wounded boy wiped it on his shirt, disgusted.
“Fuckin’ Christ,” Moses cursed in typical Lower East Side politeness, vigorously scrubbing the saliva off as Jesse chuckled.
Jesse ran a tattooed hand through his ink-black hair and shrugged. Then he leaned forward to where Moses sat behind the desk and smiled sympathetically toward Josie-Mae. “He wasn’t leavin’ you high and dry, Miss Rivera,” he said to the girl, “he was in solitary for the past week, even if he won’t admit that to you.
“That was queer as all hell, Tracey,” Moses muttered, still reeling from the attack on his hand. “Shove off.”
“Come on, Mose, we can have banter, right?” Jesse teased, leaning in closer as Moses leaned further back. He tilted his head with a grin, licking his lips. “Don’t be like that.”
The other children chuckled as Moses cringed, and Jesse puckered his lips, moving closer to Moses’ face. “Swear to God, Tracey, I will murder you!” Moses was yelling, holding Jesse back with two hands on his chest. “Stop! This is sick!”
“I wanna feel that tongue down my throat, Cassidy,” Jesse replied with an exaggerated moan. “Can’t resist the taste of stale cigarettes and desperation.”
Even Josie-Mae looked over and gave a furtive smile in amusement. Kate glanced over at Grim, who seemed to be in his world, staring off at the greying storm out the window. Raffi ignored the entire scene, flipping to the assigned pages in his Bible and muttering a prayer to himself. It was off, seeing Moses on the receiving end of unwanted advances for once, Kate decided.
Reverend Coster walked in behind a few straggling girls and shut the door, setting his briefcase on the large teacher’s desk.
“Get away from me, you freak!” Moses hollered, trying to duck, but Josie-Mae shoved him back toward Jesse as she giggled.
“Kiss me, you coward!”
The children laughed as Reverend Coster looked up in alarm and saw Jesse leaning over Moses’ desk. They howled and jeered, finding it hilarious to see two older boys acting so out of the ordinary.
Reverend Coster, Kate saw, however, seemed livid. He marched over to the boys with a fury, his face twisted in a scowl.
“Boys, what is the meaning of this?” he barked.
Jesse released Moses, who sat back with wide eyes, both still under the reverend’s gaze, realizing the gravity of their childish antics.
“I was just playin’ around, sir,” Jesse mumbled.
“Playing around? In my classroom?” Reverend Coster thundered. “This kind of foolish, unnatural behavior will not be tolerated. A sin in the eyes of God. Is that understood?”
The room fell silent as the reverend launched into a speech about sexual immorality, warning the children that they were on a dangerous path that would lead them straight to hell. But as he continued, growing angrier, Kate stood up from her seat and spoke out.
“Reverend Coster, please,” she said, oddly calm. “Jesse and Moses were just messing around. They didn’t mean any harm.”
Ro, who sat behind her, gave a little gasp. All eyes whipped to her, and she quickly covered her mouth with a hand and waved it as if nothing were wrong. She held her head in her hands and squirmed uncomfortably, taking deep breaths.
Reverend Coster turned his attention back to Kate, fixing his wrath upon her, his eyes squinting. “And what do you know of this?” he snapped.
Kate took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come. “I know that you’re supposedly a man of God, and none of us deserve to be punished for something as silly as this.”
Reverend Coster snorted in disgust, his hand reaching for the switch on his desk. “You think you know better than me, girl? You need to learn your place.”
Ro gave another little shriek, standing up abruptly and clutching her stomach. Kate’s eyes flickered to her as she stepped into the aisle. “I…” she began, wincing again as she clutched the desk for support. “I feel ill. May I…may I be excused, Reverend?”
She didn’t even wait for Reverend Coster to give his permission. She demurely made her way out of the classroom, and Kate watched Jesse fight every fiber in his being not to run after her.
“What’s the matter with that one?” Reverend Coster asked no one in particular. “Sick, is she?”
“Yes,” Kate and Jesse answered at the same time. The reverend looked from one to the other.
“Dismal stomachache,” Jesse hurriedly threw in, shrugging. “Since yesterday.”
“Could be malaria,” Kate furthered, trying to remember the diseases she’d read about in the Refuge’s medical books. “I mean, pneumonia.”
Moments later, the reverend struck both Jesse and Moses’ hands with his switch, eliciting hisses of pain from both boys. When it came time for Kate’s turn, Jesse tried to bargain to take her punishment, and when he was turned down, Moses did the same.
“She ain’t a bad girl, sir,” Moses added, cradling his battered hands under his sleeves. “She’s just mouthy.”
“If you keep speaking, either of you, I’ll see she won’t be able to sit down for a week!”
That brought both Jesse and Moses’ begging to a close. Kate stood her ground, refusing to tremble even as the switch struck her left hand.
When Raffi wrapped them with cloth later, Kate studied her tiny hand as he tended to it and secured it tightly. She winced as she flexed her fingers, the pain shooting up her arm with every movement. Her chin wobbled, but she held steady, determined not to cry in front of Raffi.
She was angry, seething with rage at Mrs. Anderson. After leaving the schoolroom, Moses had only told her minutes ago that he knew where her necklace had gone. He’d seen it on the matron’s neck.
Never mind when. I just saw it. I can nab it for you if you like. If you’ll do somethin’ for me first, savvy? See that this gets into the right hands, and throw in, I’m not such a wrong sort, will you? ‘Atta girl, Kitty-cat.
He’d slipped her the note addressed to Josie-Mae, which Kate had stubbornly read the contents of, guffawing at the numerous spelling errors, the massacre to grammar and the English language in general. Too many mistakes to count. At least, Kate thought bitterly, he’d managed to spell his infatuation’s name correctly—poor girl.
As she sat there, lost in her thoughts, she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Grim. Raffi was finished with his work and standing beside her.
“Hey there, ketsele,” Grim said softly. “Hanna told me what’s been goin’ on in your room at night.”
Kate’s stomach did a strange somersault as his calloused hand accidentally grazed the back of her neck when she moved. The somersault sent a tingle through her—one she didn’t quite understand.
She nodded silently, watching Raffi unwrap the dirty bandage around Jesse’s hand next and examine the angry red marks left by the switch, furrowing his brow in concern.
“That looks painful,” Raffi said, his voice low.
“Is what Hanna told me true?” Grim asked, kneeling before Kate.
Kate nodded again, unable to speak. She watched as Raffi tore a strip from his shirt, wrapping it carefully around Jesse’s hand and binding it tightly but gently.
Jesse looked over, something in his eyes glimmering. “How’s about you stay with us then,” he said, more declaratively than a question. “They won’t find you in here.”
“What?” Raffi asked, pausing his work. “Jesse—"
“Yeah, that’ll do fine,” Jesse said with an affirmative nod. “Kate, you’ll sleep in my bed with me, okay?”
“That’s a risk…” Kate heard another boy mumble from his bed.
“If she’s found out—which she won’t be—I’ll get in trouble, not any of you,” Jesse promised, looking at Kate expectantly. “Well, what’s it to be? Bunk mates?”
“If you’re sure,” Kate whispered, reaching up to feel her necklace again and returning empty. “Dammit.”
Having become accustomed to her curses, the three older boys barely flinched.
“Mrs. Anderson’s got it,” she finally revealed as she later sat with Ro that day in the kitchens, baking pastries. “I know she has. Moses told me so.”
Ro’s face contorted in disbelief. “No, Katerina. You’ve got it wrong, surely. She wouldn’t do something like that.”
But Kate’s face twisted in insistence. “He saw it on her, Ro. I know it was her.”
Ro’s expression softened, and she reached to place a hand on Kate’s bony shoulder. “He said that?”
Jesse shook his head, giving Ro a look. “Moses is a pathological liar, solnyshka.”
“It was Mrs. Anderson!” Kate slammed the wooden spoon on the table, letting it clatter loudly. “She’s a fuckin’ thief!”
“Watch your mouth,” Jesse said sternly, but Kate wasn’t finished.
“She stole my necklace just like she stole Grim’s…” Kate trailed off, her face flushing. She couldn’t finish that sentence without turning a crimson shade of red, and she hated herself for it.
Ro’s eyes whipped to Jesse, and he looked elsewhere. “What did she steal of Grim’s?” Ro asked, sounding both curious and nervous.
“It doesn’t matter right now,” Jesse waved her concern away hastily. “And besides, we don’t know that it was matron Anderson. It could’ve gotten lost in the laundry. Old Mrs. Miller can be forgetful where she puts things while she’s cleanin’ the dorm—”
“What?” Ro narrowed her eyes, searching Jesse’s face and then Kate’s. “I’ll not be talked to like a child, Nikolai. What happened?”
“There’s no proof it was her,” Jesse continued, trying to back-track as Kate jumped up and down impatiently, her anger bubbling over like a teakettle. “And there’s no reason for such linens to go missing. Grim likely misplaced them, but he’s got another pair—”
“His underwear!” Kate shouted, stomping her foot, her green eyes on fire with accusation. She looked half-ashamed for shouting such an absurd thing aloud and half-annoyed that Jesse was denying it to Ro. “She takes things, Ro! And now she’s got my necklace!”
Ro scrunched up her nose at that revelation and clutched her stomach again. “Madonna Santa, I am so confused—”
“One of the girls stole your necklace, Katherine,” Jesse said over Kate’s spirited ramblings. He watched the little girl flutter about like a savage and then turned his attention back to Ro, who was growing increasingly distressed by what she’d just been told. “Aurora, it ain’t—”
“That bitch thinks she can take Julia’s necklace and get away with it!” Kate yelled, kicked an oven, and threw an empty pot across the kitchen floor. “I’ll show her! We shall barricade ourselves in the dormitory until she agrees to give it back! Hunger strikes, people! If we all stop eating, she must give it back! This is an outrage!”
She ran into Jesse’s legs, and he scooped her up as she continued to kick like she could run in mid-air, demanding to be put down. “Slow your roll, Fanny Wright,” he said, setting her on the counter and looking her in the eyes. “You ain’t adding more time for yourself. I want you to leave here sooner rather than later.”
“I don’t care if I’m in here until I’m one and twenty!” Kate huffed, her cheeks rosy with rage. “Mrs. Anderson has reached into my chest and ripped out my heart, Jesse! That necklace was a gift from my dearest friend, and now it’s been stolen by that…that witch! This day is blacker than any other day I’ve known my whole life!”
Jesse peered at her in slight surprise, slack-jawed and spacey like he’d been listening to a conversation in a foreign language. “Well, that was troublingly poetic,” he said at length.
“You are not meant for such places, Katerina,” Ro added in her soft Italian accent, stroking Kate’s hair soothingly. “You deserve to be free and dressed in beautiful white outfits with elaborate little collars to look like a flower. You should have a governess, maybe a sweet poodle or two. And read to all the time from great, thrilling books.”
“I don’t want that, Ro,” Kate said, her voice scratchy. “I just want my necklace back.”
She’d hopped off the counter and ran out the kitchen doors. She ran through the empty yard, trying to find a place to hide from watchful eyes for a moment to herself. But she had no idea where she was running straight towards.
The guard dogs’ kennel near the steel mill.
Out of nowhere, she heard barking and growling behind her. She turned around and saw two giant, snarling German shepherds chasing her. Kate tried to run faster, tearing her stockings on brambles and muddying her dress. She stumbled over a patch of ice not yet shoveled and fell, gliding the rest of the way on her rear until she hit more snow.
She saw the two dogs barking as they leaped over the snowy field, eyeing her like a meal. She raised her arms over her face, squeezing her eyes shut. Just as they approached her, she saw a shadow looming over her. Without hesitation, Jesse swooped down, picked Kate up into his strong arms, and jumped over a fence about waist-high on him just as the dogs lunged, snapping their jaws furiously.
Three guards watching the whole time from a distance chuckled at the sight of the two dogs barking and snarling in frustration.
Kate could only hear a light ringing in her ears as she caught her breath, growing numb to the cold. She pressed her head against Jesse’s warm chest, feeling the vibrations as he shouted at the guards, using words Kate had never heard before. Jesse held her close, stroking her hair and whispering as he brought her back to the main building. Her sobs turned to hiccups when they got to the door, and she clung to him, looking like a tiny folklore forest fairy in the arms of a grimacing giant.
“You’re to stay with me tonight, right?” Jesse asked her once they got inside. He climbed the stairs with her, walking toward her dormitory.
Kate looked up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Why don’t you wash up before dinner, and then after prayers, I’ll come get you, okay?”
“Okay,” she sniffled.
“There you go, you’re a brave little hellcat, ain’t you?” Jesse asked, setting her down just outside Kate’s dormitory door. “Let me look at you, come ‘ere.” He knelt in front of her and wiped her eyes with his sleeve. He dusted off the mud from her dress and pulled up her stockings. When he saw her wild, wind-swept curls, he grinned. “The hair suits you, though. Leave it as is. Now go, take a hot bath. You’ll catch your death.”
Kate nodded, wiping her eyes with her hands again. She jutted out her lower lip defiantly. “And…and you go write in your journal.”
“What?” Jesse asked in surprise, sitting back on his knees. “How’d you know about that?”
Kate couldn’t help but smile at his expression.
“You ain’t read it, have you?”
Kate shook her head, crossing her heart with her fingers. “Nah. It’s yours. No one else’s.” She frowned again, looking off down the corridor. “Just like my necklace is mine.”
“Hey,” Jesse moved her chin, so she looked at him. “We’ll find it. My word’s good.”
And so, it went. For the next few nights, Kate regaled Jesse, Raffi, and Grim with all the minor infractions she’d been reprimanded for. After lights out, the three boys would sit on Jesse’s bed around Kate, draping her in a big blanket, as she sent them into both fits of laughter and frustrated curses.
Kate had looked at a squirrel and made clicking noises to communicate with it. Kate was humming, “Oh, Susannah.” Kate had a hole in her dress that she hadn’t darned. Kate drew a frowning face in an ‘O’ in one of her spelling lessons. Kate had wiped her nose on her sleeve. Kate could not resist the temptation of snow, grabbed a handful, and launched it at Hanna for fun. Kate could not remember the name of the river running down Manhattan's west side. Kate spelled math equations in the air with the tip of her finger. Kate stared at her reflection in a spoon in the canteen. Kate fed wintering pigeons a few scraps from her plate. Kate claimed that she woke up in the middle of the night and saw a man with a crucifix tiptoeing around all the girls’ beds.
Mrs. Anderson had seen Kate holding a little mouse in the corridor, petting it and kissing its head, playing some form of game. “You’ve been naughty, naughty fieldmouse. Stupid, dreadful thing. Dirty little tramp. You’re a bad influence,” Kate had been whispering to it.
Hanna had played along, taking the mouse from Kate as she handed it to her expectantly, continuing in her broken English. “Yes, you are bothersome and rude. You do not get scraps. No scraps at all. There are no scraps one bit. No scraps for you,” she insisted.
“If you cry, I shall wring your neck.”
“I do not wish to hear it.”
“You’re dirty. It would be best if you scrubbed your ears. Wash up. Filthy thing.”
“Naughty sinner. Bad, bad, bad. Unclean is what you are.”
“You ought to be ashamed, Mr. Mouse.”
Grim had come by at that moment and rescued the poor, frightened mouse, stroking its little head as it squeaked. “That’s no way to talk to one of God’s creatures,” Grim said gently, setting the mouse down and shooing it away. He spoke in German to Hanna, and she bowed her head bashfully and then scampered toward the stairs.
Kate stared up at him, folding her arms. “If you’d only heard what that mouse said to me, Grim—”
“Miles Krause.” The sugary-sweet voice made Kate’s body shiver. The two turned to find Mrs. Anderson approaching them from across the way, hands on her hips, a light smile playing on her ruby mouth.
Kate saw Grim rake a hand through his blonde hair. Something she noticed he started doing when he was nervous. His looks made him appear melancholic and angelic all at once, a power fourteen-year-old Grim didn’t yet know what to do with. Once, when Kate asked him what he thought his parents were like in their youth, he’d replied with a rake of his hair and then, Oh, I suppose some woeful skinny Yiddish girl who fell in love with a Bavarian farmer. That’s how Mama told it, anyhow. The folks at the orphanage said she was a pretty but mad woman, unfit to keep me. And they knew nothing of my papa save for his name.
“What are you doing, young man?” Mrs. Anderson asked, sauntering over with a swish of her skirts.
“Just…playing,” Grim replied, looking from Kate to the matron, not wanting to get Kate in trouble for the mouse. “Alone. Katherine only just got here.”
“Playing with yourself, then?” She asked, smiling as though she’d told the funniest joke on Broadway. Neither Kate nor Grim laughed. “What have I told you about that sort of thing?”
Penelope Anderson was thirty-seven. She had a high forehead, golden hair, rouged cheeks, a slender nose, and puffy lips. She had a wasp-waist, womanly figure that an Italian Renaissance artist would dream up. Any New York rabbit would find her beautiful. She was kind, tender, and motherly.
The best damn acting Kate had ever witnessed.
“My, my, you’re getting tall,” she said, her voice dripping with honey tones as she looked him in the eyes.
Grim blushed, feeling funny under her gaze. “Hello, Mrs. Anderson,” he replied, trying to keep his tone polite.
She took Grim by his arm, pulling him a foot from Kate. “Look under my skirt. I have a surprise for you since you’ve been so good.”
Grim looked sideways toward Kate, who craned her little neck curiously. Hesitantly, Grim lifted Mrs. Anderson’s skirt just above her dress. When he lowered it, confused at finding nothing, he found her hand outstretched with a hot roll. The inmates were never given extra food. Grim looked at it dumbly until Mrs. Anderson urged him to take it with a girlish giggle. Thanking her shyly, Grim broke it in half and gave the other to Kate.
Wincing, Mrs. Anderson glared at her. She looked over at Kate and then back at Grim. “You know, Miles, I was just wondering…who do you think is prettier, me or Miss Moore?”
Grim’s eyes widened in shock at the question. He didn’t want to offend either, incredibly not Kate—his sweet and spirited little friend. “I…I couldn’t say, Mrs. Anderson. You’re both pretty in your way,” he stammered, trying to be diplomatic.
Kate rolled her eyes. This was the third time she’d heard Mrs. Anderson ask him that same question.
Mrs. Anderson’s smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered. “Oh, Miles, you’re such a tease. But I know you like me more than Miss Moore, don’t you?” she purred, moving closer to him.
Grim felt his heart sink. Kate could see how flushed he’d gotten. “I don’t think it’s fair to compare, Mrs. Anderson. You’re both pretty,” he repeated, trying to defuse the situation.
Mrs. Anderson huffed in annoyance. She leaned in closer, trying to whisper so Kate couldn’t hear. “What about…inside of us?”
“What?” Grim’s voice had become strained in a way Kate had never heard before.
“Which of us,” Mrs. Anderson smiled again, “is prettier on the inside?”
Grim grew quiet, raking another hand through his hair. And then another. “I don’t know what you mean, ma’am.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right,” Mrs. Anderson said after a few disappointed beats. “But just remember Miles, I’m a woman,” she said, giving him a sultry wink. “She’s just a girl.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Grim,” Kate interjected, throwing up her arms in exasperation. “Just pick Mrs. Anderson. It’s what she wants, you know.”
Grim’s cheeks burned with embarrassment as Kate spoke up. He felt like he was caught in a spider’s web. He couldn’t pick between two people based on their looks.
“No.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I ain’t going to say. You’re both pretty.”
Mrs. Anderson looked at him disappointedly, clearly not pleased with his answer. “It seems like you don’t know what you want, Miles,” she said, her voice losing warmth.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Anderson,” Grim added quickly. “I didn’t mean to offend you. But you can’t ask me such questions about women,” he told the floor, trying to soothe her. “You’re all beautiful.”
A loud yell was heard from somewhere on the second floor. Kate recognized Moses Cassidy’s voice as he spouted a string of vile curses toward Mr. Whalen. Things Kate knew she hadn’t been meant to hear. A door slammed, followed by another. Then, Mr. Whalen’s unmistakable boom of a voice.
“Hm.” Was all Mrs. Anderson said in response, glaring down at Kate for a long, heavy moment. With a turn of her skirts again, she strolled away, tossing over her shoulder, “I wouldn’t call scrawny little brats beautiful.”
Mrs. Anderson loathed that the older boys seemed to dote on Kate. It made no sense to her. Kate was adored for being creative and witty, which wasn’t correct in Mrs. Anderson’s estimation. She ripped up a book she caught Kate reading in the schoolroom that hadn’t been assigned to the children. Victor Hugo and Jules Verne.
Moses Cassidy gave Kate cigarettes for every note she passed to Josie-Mae. Moses liked to have company when he smoked. Kate would smoke while perched on the fire escape with her ankles crossed, listening to Moses rattle on about his work in the tannery.
When Mrs. Anderson caught her, she made Kate stand before the boys and smoke a carton of cigarettes. The boys watched her smoke with a mixture of reactions. Jesse was biting his knuckles. Kate did it so elegantly. She blew a smoke ring, and the boys clapped and whistled.
“Firemen fear me,” she said by cigarette number four.
Laughter erupted around her. Even Jesse couldn’t hide his smirk. Grim laughed the most. He thought Kate was a marvel. It gave her the confidence to smoke the rest of the pack like an adult.
Later that afternoon, Ro held her hair as she vomited in the washroom.
When it was discovered Moses had given her the cigarettes, he was bound to his bed. Kate snuggled next to Jesse in the darkness, listening to the other boys’ snores and coughs. Though asleep, Moses looked dreadfully uncomfortable, with his wrists fastened to the railings of his bed.
Kate thought about untying him when the door creaked open, and a shadowy figure drifted into the room, closing the door behind. What came next was that Kate still couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Hushed whispers. Noises from Moses’ bed. A struggle, perhaps? The rustling of sheets. The springs of a mattress creaking in protest, haphazardly at first and then with more of a rhythm. It reminded Kate of a squeaky fiddle being tuned. They grew faster and slowed by degrees, then faster once more. The breathing—a feminine sigh—grew heavier and thicker. And something else Kate couldn’t quite puzzle, an unfamiliar noise. A quick, crisp crack that slowly decayed and then started up again with each beat.
She dared herself to peek but found she couldn’t see much in the utter blackness of the dormitory. Nothing but the desperate creaks of the springs and suddenly a muffled sigh. A woman’s sigh. More gasps and then nothing. There was a final creak as the weight shifted from the cot, the rustling of sheets again, and then the pitter-patter of shoes on the floor. Kate squinted in the darkness just as the door was opened again, bringing the figure of Mrs. Anderson to light before it closed again.
Kate dove back under the blankets, terrified that she’d been spotted. She stayed like that for what felt like an eternity. In and out of sleep, her dreams filled with the wickedest, ghoulish monsters.
She awoke in Jesse’s large arms to the sound of Mrs. Miller’s screams. Jesse was immediately up and out of bed alongside a dozen other boys. Kate felt the cold emptiness surround her, staring off at the opposite wall, knowing what she’d witnessed last night wasn’t a nightmare. It had all been confirmed.
Moses Cassidy’s body was thrown in the Refuge cellar for storage until the coroner could arrive.
Suicide is what the death was ruled. Suicide by ingestion of chloral hydrate. Mrs. Miller had wailed for a good while over his corpse, draping herself over his cold body and grasping his hand in both of hers as if trying to warm him. Kate tried to peek around the crowd surrounding the bed, but Jesse grabbed Kate and spun her around.
“No, solnyshka, don’t look!” he ordered, taking Grim’s shoulder and shoving them both to the door. “Take her out of her, Grim. Just go.”
Kate was shaking with anger by the time she saw the boy’s weeping mother emerge from the warden’s office to collect her son’s things. What little things he had, anyway. He’d come to the island with the clothes and shoes, a rosary, and an old billfold with no money. She was inconsolable as Mrs. Anderson counseled her on a nearby church pew outside Snyder’s office, saying she remembered Moses as a spirited boy who often got into trouble.
Mrs. Cassidy’s hands went to her face as she sobbed, her three younger children clinging to her side. “Not my darlin’ boy!” She managed to enunciate in her thick brogue. “Ah, Jesus, not my baby!”
Ro stood with Kate, watching the woman break down as Mrs. Anderson rubbed her back, for once not using her nails. Ro clutched her stomach, feeling tears spring to her eyes. “Mrs. Anderson can’t say anything that’ll comfort that poor woman,” Ro observed quietly. “Even if it’s well-intentioned.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Kate let go of Ro’s hand, making a beeline for Snyder’s office before the older girl could stop her. Kicking open the door without a knock, Kate found herself face to face with a dozen or so Children’s Aid Society officials and Warden Snyder himself at a large, oval table. She knew why they were there. They had been called to investigate the death, eating up whatever lies Snyder was feeding them to avoid a scandal.
Snyder looked up in surprise at the sight of the small girl standing defiantly before him.
“What is the meaning of this outrageous summons, young lady?” he demanded, his face red with anger. “There had better be a fire or—”
“I have something to tell you, and it’s worse than a fire!” Kate’s voice was shaking with fury and determination. She pointed indignantly out in the hall, knowing Ro, Mrs. Anderson, and Mrs. Cassidy could hear. “Mrs. Anderson killed Moses Cassidy with chloral hydrate! I don’t know how she did it, but she did it! I saw her!” She took a few quick breaths and added, “And she stole my necklace!”
Snyder’s face turned an ashen gray for a moment and then grew redder again, looking like he was about to explode. “Nonsense!” he shouted. “How dare you make such accusations against our matron! She is a good Christian woman! You’ll be damned for it!”
“There are worse things to burn for!” Kate shot back, her little body trembling as she heard Moses’ voice. ‘Atta girl, Kitty-cat.
Kate could hear Mrs. Cassidy’s cries again outside the office, and Mrs. Anderson cautiously crossed the threshold. Kate could feel her hair-raising presence from behind her. She glared at Kate, placing a clawed hand on her shoulder, which Kate quickly shrugged off.
Kate was told to wait in her dormitory until further notice. When the door closed behind her, Ro pulled her away before she could apologize to Mrs. Cassidy, who looked a complete wreck. She was on her knees now, holding Moses’ shirt to her face as if inhaling his scent would bring him back.
Ro took Kate up more flights of stairs, past the schoolrooms, past Josie-Mae on the third-floor landing where she sat crying on her own, and into Jesse’s dorm. “She will not be pleased with that, Katerina,” Ro said in hushed tones, closing the door behind her. “You should stay here with Jesse for the next week. He’ll keep you safe. Likely, they’ll be after you.”
“They?”
Ro avoided the little girl’s big doe eyes and nodded, looking around frantically for Jesse. She found Grim instead. Jesse had been ordered to solitary for his behavior when he discovered Moses had died. He had believed Kate’s every word when she told him what she saw. Mrs. Miller had begged Jesse to let her handle it, but Jesse shoved Mr. Whalen and demanded he had that witch Nell Anderson sacked for her ratchet, evil acts.
For his trouble, Jesse was given the full extent of the cats’ lashing and delivered to confinement. Learning this, Kate hugged Ro as the older girl began to cry, too.
It was decided Kate would sleep with Grim Krause that night—that last night of her sentence. The blonde boy gallantly offered her the most room on the bed so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. “Grim, I don’t mind,” Kate had insisted, drawing up the blanket and distributing it equally between them. “You know I could never be afraid of you.”
“Well, perhaps I’m afraid of you, ketsele,” he said softly, tweaking her nose.
“Do you suppose Moses Cassidy is in hell?” After a few moments, Kate whispered, lying next to Grim in the dormitory, her body aching from the mere fright of what she’d witnessed. “That’s what Reverend Coster said.”
Grim took a moment before answering. “No,” he decided. “I reckon he ain’t nowhere.”
In the dark, Kate looked at his features, rolling over on her side. “Are you some kind of eighty-best?”
Grim stifled a slight grin, shaking his head. “You mean atheist?”
Kate moved closer to him for warmth, watching to see if he moved away. He didn’t. “Do you think his ghost is trapped in here? Should we open a window to let his spirit out?”
“Mm,” Grim said sleepily, turning to face Kate. “We’ll do it tomorrow when it ain’t so cold. Okay?”
Nodding slightly, Kate sniffled. “Okay.”
There wouldn’t be a tomorrow, as far as Kate knew. Early that following day, she was awoken with a hand over her mouth and a sharp yank from the bed. Kate’s body had grown sweaty throughout the night, making her stick to the sheets. Her skin peeled off the cot like an adhesive, and she was met with Mrs. Anderson’s fierce glare and a stern finger to her lips to keep quiet. “Outside,” Mrs. Anderson mouthed aggressively, “Right now!”
Catching her breath, her elbow pulled Kate along, the sharp claws of the matron digging their way into her skin. Kate rubbed the sleep from her eyes, scampering along her tiptoes to keep up with Mrs. Anderson’s fast pace.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid girl,” the matron kept repeating as she tugged on Kate’s arm, whipping her down the hall and into an empty washroom on the second floor, unattached to a dormitory. She kicked a large basin under a faucet and turned on the water. Kate watched a sludge pour out first before the water finally came. “Strip!”
Nervously, Kate began fiddling with her nightgown’s buttons, not moving fast enough for Mrs. Anderson’s liking. The woman flew into a rage and threw Kate’s hands away. Instead, she forcefully tore off the nightgown, yanking it over Kate’s head so hard that Kate felt like Marie Antoinette at the guillotine. “Get in!” Mrs. Anderson grabbed Kate’s hair, forcing her to the ice bath. “Get in at once, you little Jezebel!”
Kate obeyed, dipping her toes in the freezing water. She yelped as the matron picked her up and dropped her inside, making the water slosh about like a storm at sea. Kate choked on the water, kicking with all her might as she tried to resurface. “I—I’m sorry, ma’am!” Kate shrieked, gasping for air.
“What, you thought you’d get away with it?” The matron hissed in her ear, grabbing a bath brush and scrubbing it raw over Kate’s soft skin. Kate yelped in protest. “Stupid girl! I should’ve known you’d be trouble!”
“I just needed a place to sleep—”
“A place to sleep?” Mrs. Anderson repeated incredulously. “Don’t make me laugh. I know why you were in there.”
The matron’s words were as cold and biting as the water. Kate could feel her face burning with shame for reasons she couldn’t comprehend. She knew she had made a grave mistake but couldn’t believe it would warrant such a harsh reaction.
“I’m sorry,” Kate whispered again, barely audible.
“Disgusting. Tainted.” She could feel the matron’s eyes on her as her hair was scrubbed. Kate felt her head push forward as Mrs. Anderson scrubbed the brush along her back and lower. Kate screamed again. “Open your mouth!”
Kate obeyed. Grabbing Kate’s jaw and squeezing, Mrs. Anderson set down the brush and turned the girl’s face forcefully, looking inside her mouth. She stuck a finger inside and dug around her gums and tongue. Kate made a choking sound, and Mrs. Anderson withdrew her finger, inspecting it. “Answer me this, have you bled yet? Your monthly?”
Kate thought she had an idea of what that meant. She remembered back to the curse her mother had told her about. Shaking her head as best she could in Mrs. Anderson’s grip, Kate whined like a kitten. “N-no. I ain’t a real lady.”
Mrs. Anderson squeezed her jaw tighter and then let go harshly. “Damn right, you aren’t.”
She stood and hoisted Kate out of the tub. Kate stood there shivering, wrapping her arms around her body self-consciously. She stood there for a long time while Mrs. Anderson disappeared. Breathing heavily, Kate found a dirty towel in an old pantry and cloaked herself in it, teeth chattering like a drum.
Mrs. Miller came in shortly after, placing her hands over her mouth. “What has she done to you, baby?” The older woman asked, hurrying over and picking Kate up in her arms. Pulling the towel more secure around the tiny girl’s body, Mrs. Miller brought Kate back to her quarters and dressed her in a new uniform, taking care to dry and comb out Kate’s curls as best she could. “You ought to count yourself lucky it wasn’t any worse. That boy Miles is gettin’ his hide tanned as we speak.”
Kate wouldn’t cry. She didn’t want to give Mrs. Anderson the satisfaction, especially not as she sat across from Snyder that morning. Not even when he asked her the most confusing questions she’d ever been asked. Not even when Mrs. Anderson insisted her hair be chopped off and her time is doubled. She wanted Kate whipped and humiliated and—
“Her time is up, Mrs. Anderson,” Snyder reminded the matron as she paced, eyeing the little girl who sat in the chair before his desk. Kate sat with her legs crossed, back straight, and chin up. Her hair was still damp. “Besides, Miles should be punished, not this child. She’s young and has forgotten her place, is all.”
Mrs. Anderson’s ferocious eyes darted to Kate. “She’s a vicious little gash who needs to be taught she cannot get what she wants by letting the boys put their fingers under her dress!” She narrowed her eyes, pointing at Kate, who winced at her words and held Snyder’s gaze. “That temptress…I know one when I see one, sir. She would’ve propositioned the whole dormitory for weeks had I not caught her. And what would the Children’s Aid Society say to that? A little siren turns each boy to sin. Giving them all pleasure. Giving Miles Krause pleasure!”
Kate watched Mrs. Anderson stroll about the room like a madwoman loose from her straitjacket. It frightened her to see such a sight. Snyder watched Kate, noting how she squirmed and flinched at each new accusation.
“That Jesse Tracey, too, I’m sure!” Mrs. Anderson went on. “And the Cassidy boy! They all had special friendships with her!”
“Nell.” Snyder’s voice was calm and collected as he addressed the matron, drawing her to a halt as she placed a hand on her head. “She is leaving today, and that is final. If you feel something should be done, you can take it up with the courts. I have no choice but to release her legally. Her father has come to take her home and is in the downstairs foyer. You will close your mouth about such matters while he is here and make no more fuss about it—”
“Close my mouth?” Mrs. Anderson laughed in bafflement. Kate felt the clawed nails sink into her shoulder once more. “It’s this one whose mouth caused all the trouble!”
“Enough!” Snyder shouted, slamming the desk with his hand. He nodded to Mr. Whalen, who stood by the door. “Take Miss Moore to pack her things. She will leave with her father this afternoon following her formal discharge.”
Kate wrestled herself from under Mrs. Anderson’s grip and quickly trailed after Mr. Whalen. When she returned to her dormitory to pack, she tried to seek out Ro and Grim but couldn’t find them anywhere. Raffi was already gone. Jesse, she knew, was in solitary. Mrs. Miller, however, promised she’d tell them Kate said her goodbyes.
“Go on now, baby, get out of here,” Mrs. Miller urged softly, giving Kate a tight hug, feeling every bone in the girl’s body. “Tell your daddy you hope never to come back here again. Be a good little girl for your mama, hm?”
Kate clenched her jaw, nodding stiffly. “You’ll tell Jesse I said I’ll write to him?”
“I sure will, child.”
With that, Kate allowed her father, Edward Moore, to take her by the hand and lead her to the waiting ferryboat. She turned and looked over her shoulder at the ominous Refuge building, taking care to block out the noise of the barking guard dogs behind the tall gates.
“Your mother’s been anxious over you,” she could barely hear her father’s lies over the noise of the ferry’s engines. “I say we make a special evening of your return. Go out for dinner somewhere nice. What do you say?”
Kate said nothing as she watched the island grow further away as the boat moved, headed back toward the wicked city in the distance.
“Katherine? Did you hear what I said?”
Kate tore her gaze away from the island and stared at the welts on her hand from Reverend Coster’s switch. “Okay,” she said, tasting the river water on the wind as it whipped through her hair. She is already drafting a letter to Jesse Tracey in her head. Free of errors and full of blasphemies.
Chapter 14: Cozenage
Summary:
Spot’s fists clenched at his sides, and his face turned red as he struggled to form a coherent thought. “What’s it to me?” he repeated, incredulous. “She’s my girlfriend, Muggs! And you’re supposed to be my friend! How could you do this to me?”
Muggs just shrugged. “Sorry, Spot. It’s just life, you know. Nothing personal.”
On the other hand, Stella looked like she was about to burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Spot,” she said, scrambling to cover herself as she sat up. Her hair was a mess. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“It sure as hell looks like you’re in bed with him,” Spot shot back, pointing at Muggs.
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
January 1894
Brooklyn, NY
“Spot! Spot! Wake up! The damn house is on fire!”
The voice pierced through Spot’s slumber like a knife, jolting him awake with urgency. He found himself staring into the smug face of No Name, who seemed to take pleasure in catching him napping in the library armchair for the second time. “Just kidding about the fire, but Mary needs you downstairs in five minutes,” No Name added, his tone laced with a hint of mockery.
As Spot rose from the armchair, he could hear the commotion below in the dimly lit newsboy lodging house. The musty air filled his nostrils as he rubbed his tired eyes and stretched his cramped limbs. He picked up the fallen book, Robinson Crusoe, and set it back on the end table. “What for?” Spot grumbled, still groggy from sleep.
“No idea. Mary didn’t say,” replied No Name, already heading toward the door. “But you better get going. I’ve got better things to do than hunt you down.”
As Spot struggled to lace up his boots, No Name couldn’t resist a dig. “Hey, ain’t you supposed to see Miss Darley tonight?” he teased, winking at him mischievously. The mention of her name made Spot’s heart skip a beat.
The day was bleak and unwelcoming, the chill of the wind from the east penetrating through Spot’s clothing and leaving him shivering. The clouds were thick and ominous, threatening to burst open with a vengeance at any moment. Despite the unfavorable weather, Spot was determined to continue gardening, tending to Mary's small plot by digging away the snow, the garden they shared with the neighboring Episcopal churchyard.
The rhythmic sound of Spot’s shovel digging into the ice was comforting, a soothing repetition that allowed his mind to wander. Something was troubling him that he couldn't quite put his finger on, and he hoped that the garden's tranquility would help him sort through his thoughts. Pulling out the ice chunks, he allowed his mind to wander and contemplate.
Spot had been up since dawn, roused by the loud chorus of boys outside. It was a tumultuous morning, and he couldn't shake the dread that had settled deep in his gut. He had tried to nap in the library, but the brief respite had only left him feeling groggier and more disoriented than before.
Despite his unease, Spot found solace in the act of gardening. There was something therapeutic about digging into the earth and coaxing new life out of it, and it gave him a sense of purpose. He couldn't quite articulate what was bothering him, but he knew he would eventually find the answer if he kept his mind occupied with the task.
As he shoveled the snow, his mind whirled with thoughts and possibilities. Perhaps it was the uncertainty of the future weighing on him, or maybe it was the weight of past mistakes. Whatever it was, Spot knew that he couldn't avoid it forever. He had to confront his fears head-on, no matter how difficult it may be.
The bunk beside him that morning was empty yet again. Grim was missing. Spot had grown accustomed to the boy's not-so-quiet snores and his presence in their small bunkroom.
It was the fourth time this week that Grim had disappeared. He knew where the sixteen-year-old had been spending his nights - with Natalie, that wild and reckless girl who seemed to have a hold over him. But what were they doing out there, God knows where, at all-night hours?
Spot thought of Stella Darley, his girlfriend who had forgotten his birthday just the week before. She had been trying to make it up to him ever since with her sugary smiles and girlish sighs. Spot wasn't one for such superficial gestures, but he appreciated the effort nonetheless.
He remembered when they had both forgotten to get each other gifts for Christmas - or was it Valentine's Day? They had laughed it off, blaming their demanding work. But that seemed like a lifetime ago now.
Stella had gone out that day and bought him a pretty edition of Robinson Crusoe, knowing his fondness for books. Spot smiled at the memory. He had always had a thing for books, and Stella knew it better than anyone.
But as he stood in the garden, with Grim still missing and the world around him just settling down, Spot felt lonely. He had always been content with his company but longed for something more lately. As he worked along the small border at the side of the lodging house and the back of the church, Spot noticed something different about the air. It was as if a storm was brewing, and he could almost taste it on his tongue.
Spot had been tending to Mary's plants for a year since she offered him the opportunity. It had become a routine, something he did without much thought or consideration. But today, an unease had been building inside him for weeks, and he couldn't ignore it any longer. He worked rhythmically, digging and shoveling snow and ice, hoping cleaning up the small yard would help him focus his thoughts.
The atmosphere around the lodging house had shifted, making him uneasy. He had always felt comfortable here, amongst the flowers and the plants, but now there was a frozen hellscape and a tension in the air that he couldn't ignore. Had he said something to offend someone? Had there been an incident that he wasn't aware of?
His mind was filled with thoughts of the recent unpleasantness with Muggs. They had been experiencing a growing friction over the past few weeks. Muggs was a vile and wicked creature, always on edge whenever Spot was around. Spot had tried his best to offer kind words and helpful advice, but Muggs could never accept them as intended. Instead, he would snap at Spot, biting his poor head off like the giant Cerberus. As the younger of the two, Spot blamed himself for the situation. He felt like he was walking on eggshells whenever he tried to talk to Muggs, but he was never quite sure how the conversation would end. And last Saturday's frosty treatment had left Spot feeling hurt and confused. Despite his best efforts, Spot couldn't think of anything he had done to deserve Muggs' cold behavior. Perhaps it was just Muggs' nature to be brutal and unyielding. But Spot wished things could go back to how they were before when he and Muggs were neutral at best.
Spot felt a sense of restlessness tugging at his heartstrings, a feeling that had become all too familiar recently. It was as if his life was slipping through his fingers, and he could not stop it. He thought of Mary, his dear landlady, who often spoke of what she would do differently if she could travel through time. Spot wondered what he would change if he had the chance. He felt he had squandered his youth at age twelve and a half and was now paying the price. Other boys had taken advantage of their opportunities, found better-paying jobs, and worked up the career ladder with flair and initiative. They had gone to real schools, while Spot had toiled away in night classes and apprenticeships. He had worked tirelessly to keep the economy growing but received little recognition or thanks for his efforts.
Now, he found himself growing tired of it all. The only thing that brought him any real pride was Mary's Garden. It was a thing of beauty, the envy of the entire block. But even that was not enough to ease the sense of restlessness that gnawed at him. He wondered what his life would have been like if he had taken a different path. He may have found more tremendous success, or he may have ended up in the same place. It was impossible to know. That uncertainty only added to his frustration.
As Spot finished tending to the frozen garden, his mind drifted back to his relationship with Muggs, a boy he couldn't seem to please. And to make matters worse, Spot had failed to make a name for himself at the tender age of twelve, as Muggs had. Perhaps that’s why Muggs didn’t respect him. Muggs’ father, a man Spot feared and studied in equal measure, had wanted Spot to take a job from Tammany. But Spot knew that wasn't the life he wanted for himself. He could still hear his father's harsh words ringing in his ears, calling him a stupid, lazy, ungrateful cur. Spot sighed and sat back on his heels, admiring the immaculate border he had just finished tending. He had worked tirelessly, using only his bare hands and a small garden fork, just as his mother had taught him. The garden was pristine, with not a single weed in sight. He felt a sense of pride in his hard work. His mother would be proud of him, he thought to himself. But as Spot looked out at the vast expanse of his family's property, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was meant for something more. He couldn't let his father's expectations hold him back forever.
Spot walked with stiff purpose to the shed that belonged to the church, where the tools were kept, and the seedlings tended to. As he tidied up, he inspected every inch of the shed. The thought of the evening ahead warmed his heart. Mary had planned to make a shepherd’s pie, a dish that Spot always looked forward to. He knew Mary would bake it until it was crispy and golden brown, as Spot liked. They would spend the evening in the kitchen, waiting for Stella to arrive and reading the evening edition aloud to each other.
As Spot worked, he got a sense of unease about Stella’s arrival. With her job in a dress factory, Spot could never be too sure when she would show up. This uncertainty was a big reason Spot never wanted to take on a night job for extra money or embark on more evening courses to study. He preferred the stability of his current job, even if it meant he had to forego some extra income or education.
Suddenly, he heard a window slamming shut on the top floor above the dormitory. The attic, Spot puzzled. He quickly wiped his hands on his trousers. Glancing at his timepiece, Spot couldn't believe the time. Stella was almost always on time. He had been expecting her earlier. He hastily walked around the back of the house, hoping to glimpse her in the kitchen with Mary. Turning the corner, he was surprised to find the kitchen empty. Stella usually sat in her unique chair, enjoying a free copy and a mug of tea before joining him in the garden.
Just as he was about to call out for Stella, he heard a noise coming from upstairs. His heart racing, Spot shouted, "Hello?" hoping to get a response.
“Hello, yourself,” slurred No Name from the parlor, face buried in a copy of the evening edition.
Another odd sound from the ceiling made Spot flinch, but No Name didn’t seem to hear it. “Are you drunk?” Spot asked No Name.
No Name looked over at him, his eyes slightly glazed. “Drunk? Me? Never. I’m just pleasantly tipsy, like one of Calico’s cats with catnip.”
“Well, if you’re going to be Calico’s cat, I suppose I’ll have to be the responsible adult,” Spot said, rolling his eyes. “Make sure you don’t let Mary see you’ve been at the bottle again.”
No Name propped his long legs up on the coffee table. “Oh, Spot, you always know what to say to make me feel like a dead-beat father.”
As Spot ascended the creaky staircase, his mind was blank, yet his stomach churned with anxiety. Stella had arrived an hour earlier than their usual meeting time, and he couldn't fathom why. His hands were still damp as he entered the empty bunkroom. The sudden change in Stella’s routine had left Spot feeling like a giant question mark. He had no words to articulate the turmoil inside of him, no questions to ask. All he knew was that something was amiss.
His stomach dropped when he heard a string of giggles. Stella’s, to be sure. He was coming from the attic, no less. Spot shakily climbed the creaky, narrow—almost hidden—staircase up to the dusty old attic, his heart racing with fear and curiosity. That’s when he saw it. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.
There was Stella, his Stella, tangled up in the sheets of one of the lousy, spare cots, her under-clothed body pressed against the most wicked and vile bastard Spot had ever known. Her hand moved rhythmically under the thin blanket. Immediately, he felt sick to his stomach.
“What the hell is going on here?” Spot managed to stammer out, his voice echoing off the bare walls. He froze in shock, his mouth agape as he entered the scene before him.
Muggs just smirked, utterly unbothered by the fact that he had been caught. “Hey, Spot,” he said as if it was the most casual thing in the world. “I’m enjoying some quality time with Stella here, but you’re just in time for the after-party. What’s it to you?”
Spot’s fists clenched at his sides, and his face turned red as he struggled to form a coherent thought. “What’s it to me?” he repeated, incredulous. “She’s my girlfriend, Muggs! And you’re supposed to be my friend! How could you do this to me?”
Muggs just shrugged. “Sorry, Spot. It’s just life, you know. Nothing personal.”
On the other hand, Stella looked like she was about to burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Spot,” she said, scrambling to cover herself as she sat up. Her hair was a mess. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“It sure as hell looks like you’re in bed with him,” Spot shot back, pointing at Muggs.
“Don’t worry, Conlon,” Muggs drawled lazily. “I ain’t trying to steal your girl. She’s just a big fan of my work.”
“Spot, it was my fault,” Stella interrupted.
“Your fault?” Spot spat out. “Sleeping with Muggs was your fault?”
Muggs just chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. He cut Stella off before she could continue speaking a little too quickly. “Sorry, Spot, I couldn’t resist,” he said as he pulled on his pants under the sheets. “Your girl is something special.”
Spot felt his anger boiling over. He couldn’t believe that Stella would cheat on him with this phony, arrogant barbarian. “You stay away from my girlfriend, you—you monster!” he snarled.
Muggs grinned. “Relax, Conlon, it was just a favor. No harm done.”
Spot turned to Stella, his voice trembling with rage. “How could you do this to me, Stella? How could you betray me like this?”
Stella looked down at her hands, tears brimming in her sad brown eyes. “I don’t know, Spot, I asked…I asked him to,” she whispered. “I didn’t think you’d be home. You weren’t in the house when I checked.”
“Get out,” Spot snarled at Muggs.
“Sure.” Muggs sighed and slid out of bed, bare-chested and shiny with sweat, slinging his shirt over his shoulder. “But before I go, can I offer you some advice?”
“I’ll murder you, Muggs—”
Muggs towered over the younger newsie, glaring down at him like the wrath of God was in his very eyes. “Lighten up. It’s just sex.”
Spot sputtered in disbelief as Muggs strolled out of the attic, leaving him alone with Stella. She tried to apologize once more, but all Spot could think about was the fact that his girlfriend had just slept with the boy, who was a never-ending torment to him while he was in the garden, slaving away for Mary.
“Spot, please listen to me,” Stella begged, her blonde hair falling into her face. “I wanted my first time to be with Muggs because I thought it would make me more... I never meant for you to find out.”
Spot couldn’t believe what he was hearing, bristling at the logic. “You wanted your first time to be with him of all people? What the hell does that even mean?”
Stella wiped at her eyes. “I don’t know, Spot. I just…I thought it would make things easier.”
Spot shook his head, not comprehending. “Easier? Easier for who, Stella? Not for me, that’s for damn sure. How could you? After everything?”
Stella’s shoulders slumped, defeated. “I’m sorry, Spot. I just…”
“You just what?” Spot’s eyes blazed with hurt and anger. “You just wanted to sleep with Muggs? You just wanted to make things easier for yourself, whatever that means. Did you even stop to think about how it would make me feel? What does this mean for us?”
Stella tried to reach out for him, but Spot pulled away. “I can’t even look at you right now, Stella. I need to go for a walk or something. I need to clear my head.”
“Spot!” She gave a desperate little cry, like a kitten being crushed under the wheels of a carriage, and threw her arms around Spot. “You must believe me! I had to do it!”
Spot put his arms around her awkwardly. “What? He didn’t force you, did he?” Spot’s breath got caught in his throat. He could barely finish posing the question without choking.
“No, I swear, I asked him to,” Stella said, looking drowsily into Spot’s eyes. Unnaturally. “It’s sweet of you to get all concerned though, Spot—” She caught herself, then took her arms away. “But we ain’t working out so well, you and me. And…and I’ve moved on, see.”
Spot winced inside at that, though he’d seen that coming for a few weeks. He tried not to show how wounded he was. “Things will be tougher with Muggs.”
At that, Stella couldn’t help but force out a laugh that almost made Spot flinch. “Good heavens, no. Not Muggs,” she said, shaking her head. “I ain’t leaving you for him. I’m going someplace nice, someplace fancy to work. I’ll have my room, pick of customers, and everything. My new man promised as much.”
“New man? And who might that be?”
“None other than Jab Johnson.” She put her hands proudly on her narrow hips. “Ain’t that something?”
If Stella’s previous comment had elicited a flinch, this one landed like a blow from a brickbat. “Jab Johnson,” Spot whispered. “Stella, you can’t possibly—”
“And why ever not? If you’re thinking he’s too old, let me assure you, he favors younger women—his words, not mine. And since he’s a Duster, I’ll have protection all over the city. I won’t attend to any man without him saying it’s alright.”
She sniffed and ran a hand through her messy blonde hair. “That’s why I asked Muggs. He’s older and knows about things…” she trailed off, her face turning an uncharacteristic scarlet hue.
For a spell, Spot held his tongue. Memories of Jab Johnson flooded back to him from the days when he dwelt in his folks' flat. Jab was one of the fire rabbits under Colm Tracey, a Hudson Duster crew that held sway over the West Side and the docks beneath Fourteenth Street. The Dusters were what Spot and his ilk dubbed "burny blowers," insatiably hooked on snuffing up powdered cocaine, with a few of them even resorting to injecting the drug. Their indulgence made them unpredictable, foolhardy, and prone to violence, driving most other gangs to avoid them. Still, they had a following among the well-off Bohemian set, who shared their lust for the drug and often patronized their haunt, a grubby joint on Hudson Street. Seeing their former fire chief, Colm Tracey, exalted in verse and song by learned but misguided folks was a disgusting spectacle.
Spot wondered if the Dusters had similarly enlisted Stella as Colm enlisted his son: turning him into a cocaine fiend and then controlling his access to the stuff. As if on cue, Stella sat on the bed and produced a mints tin filled to the brim with fine white powder—much like the one Muggs had.
“Care for some?” she muttered in that half-shamed manner all junkies assume when they cannot resist indulging in front of another. "I can lay my hands on as much as I fancy."
"I don't doubt that for a second," Spot replied. But then, an urge ignited within him, setting his blood ablaze. "Listen, Stella," he said, perching on the bed beside her. "I've got an idea. It could be your way out of all this."
“Spot, I already told ya, I ain’t your girl anymore.”
Spot shook his head, swallowing the rejection as best he could without betraying his emotions. "No, I mean, Mary is on the lookout for a secretary- a full-time, live-in secretary. I could sway her if you'd be willing to..."
Spot was cut short by the loud sound of her snorting the cocaine off her wrist. Her face twisted in pain momentarily before settling into a relieved expression. At last, she burst out laughing. "A secretary? Spot, you must be kidding!"
"What, why not?" Spot exclaimed. "It's a fine roof over your head and steady work."
Stella scoffed. “Yeah, and that old bad will cheat me out of decent pay.”
Enraged, Spot grabbed her wrist, causing the cocaine to scatter. "Don't you dare speak of Mary like that!" he growled. "You know nothing of her kind."
"Goddamn it, Spot!" Stella cried, scrambling to gather the spilled cocaine. "You never understand. I've met plenty of people like her since coming to this city. They offer something, but there's always a catch. I want a man, Spot, not a boy with silly ideas. Jab's my man, and he will make me somebody."
Stella paused, trying to catch her breath. "I like you, Spot. But I won't settle for being a secretary. I'll be a dancer, an actress, a rich man's wife. And I'll have plenty of secretaries of my own!"
She rose from her perch and adjusted her clothing towards the door.
“Right," muttered Spot under his breath. "It was just a thought..."
She sauntered over to him and enfolded him in her embrace. "A grand thought, sure. But not for me, Spot. If it’s your fancy, I’m not going to stop you. But it ain’t mine."
Spot assented with a nod. "Yeah."
She pivoted him towards her and grasped his face in her hands. "You can visit me on occasion, but you must behave. Like I said, I’m Jab’s moll now. Alright?"
"Sure...I get it."
Stella began to unlatch the door. Spot collapsed onto the mattress as if he had forfeited the world.
“Hey.” When Spot looked up from the bed, Stella was beaming in the doorway. “Can’t I get a farewell kiss?”
Though somewhat hesitant, Spot rose and made his way to her. As he leaned in for the kiss, fate had other plans. A crimson drop of blood streamed from Stella's nostril and descended to her lip. "Consarn it!" she muttered, swiftly turning away to dab at the blood with her sleeve. "It happens sometimes after I snort some..."
Spot had had enough. With a mumbled, “So long, Stella,” he escorted her out. As he gazed at her walking across the bustling city street, he couldn't bear to stay still any longer. He raced back up the steps to the lodging house, propelled by a growing sense of urgency. He flew past the coat room and parlor, and his heart pounded with each step until he reached the back stoop. A group of boys whose faces he couldn't quite make out called out to him, but he didn't slow down. His pace quickened, and he fought back tears, unwilling to let anyone see his pain.
Not an hour later, as Spot sat adrift on the front stoop, smoking a cigarette, he’d bummed from Calico—not even caring if Mary saw—Colm Tracey came to a stop before the lodging house just as the streetlamps were being lit for the night. The glow of the gaslights cast a devilish glow on his rugged features and a wild look in his eyes.
He paid Spot no mind as he strode past him on the steps and pushed open the door like he owned the place. Swallowing, Spot snubbed out his dying cigarette on the ground and quietly followed inside, wanting to come to Mary’s defense should another argument break out. He’d come for one boy, like always—Muggs. The boy was just fourteen, but he’d seen his fair share of pain. Colm didn’t care about Muggs’ problems, though. All he cared about on those nights was making a quick buck.
“Where’s that boy of mine?” Colm bellowed to no one in particular, his voice echoing through the halls.
Spot watched the Viking of a man stalk further into the place, looking at the boys assembled in the parlor, then scanning the ceiling as if listening for something. He looked to Calico, who was sat by the hearth with a cat on his lap. “Hans, be a good lad. Fetch my son and tell him it won't be pretty if I come up there.”
Calico returned Colm’s wild-eyed stare with a stoic glower of his own and stood with the cat in his arms, taking his time up the steps. Calico never returned, but Muggs peered over the fence shortly after that.
“Get a move on, I ain’t got all night,” Colm snapped, folding his arms across his chest. “And wipe that look off your face.”
Muggs made his way down the stairs, mumbling to himself, shuffling too slowly for Colm’s liking. With a swift crossing, Colm was at Muggs’ reach and collared him roughly, pulling him along. “I got big plans for you, boy,” Colm said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “We’re gonna make us some dough tonight.” He stopped short and spun Muggs around by his arm, giving him a once-over. “Did you bathe—”
He pulled Muggs close, sniffed his hair, raking fingers through it, and then brushed a dirty thumb over Muggs’ cheek. “Why the hell did you bathe? You’re in the ring tonight. You ain’t supposed to look as clean as a choir boy.”
“I—”
“And you ate today, didn’t you? Son of a bitch, you bathed, you ate, you…don’t tell me,” Colm’s lips curled into a frown beneath his dark mustache. “You filthy little bastard, you know you ain’t supposed to gettin’ familiar with that left hand of yours when you fight later. I need you angry—”
“I ain’t frigged myself if that’s what you’re askin’.” Muggs’ voice was coarse and somewhere in the back of his throat.
Spot gave a little dry laugh at that, sitting demurely where Calico had been. “Didn’t need to.”
Colm spun at that, eyeing Spot curiously. “What was that?”
Looking up at Colm uneasily, Spot shook his head. “Nothing.” He’d caught Muggs’ wide green eyes just behind Colm. The pleading look he’d given him was something Spot hadn’t seen in a while.
“Colm Tracey, please.” Mary came around the corner, drying her hands on her apron and smoothing her skirt. “Don’t take Matthew out tonight. He’s promised to help me fix the furnace. It’s been giving me trouble all week.”
“And I don’t suppose the furnace will wait one night more,” Colm spat. “You don’t have sway over him. He belongs to me.”
“I belong to the state of New York.” Muggs’ shrug looked more like a flinch. Colm met his eyes coldly. “What? The CAS said so.”
“Any more lip out of you, and I’ll make you fight without cocaine.”
With that, Colm corralled Muggs to the door, giving one more passing glance to Spot in the corner. “Well, kid, how about it?” He tossed over. Spot had to look around before realizing Colm was addressing him and not anyone else. “Are you in or out?”
Spot glanced up at Colm in frightened awe. He knew crossing Colm would be trouble. But he was also keen to watch Muggs get the wind knocked out of him several times that evening for what he’d done to Spot an hour or so before. He hesitated momentarily, his mind racing as he watched Mary do the same, clearly trying to find an excuse to keep Spot home. What, was she going to say Spot had made a fake promise about fixing something else?
Mustering his strength, Spot stood up and approached Colm, clenching his fists at his sides. “Sure, I’m in,” he said, trying to sound confident.
He watched Colm smirk in satisfaction as if he expected nothing less. But Spot could feel Muggs’ hot green-glowing glare on him like a scorching aurora borealis display.
“Good,” Colm said, clapping a hand on Spot’s shoulder like a weight. “You’re in for a real peach of a night.”
With a final glance back at Mary—a look she returned with an anxious wave—Spot followed Colm and Muggs out the door.
“What on Earth…” Mary slumped into a large armchair, her bony frame looking small and slight in comparison. She looked at No Name, who’d witnessed the entire scene over his newspaper in the corner. “Demetrio, what is going on? Enlighten me, pray.”
No Name folded his newspaper and set it aside. He stood, beginning to pace as he fumbled with a cigarette.
Tide came around the corner from the kitchen and lounged on the sofa with an apple in hand, reeking of cooked opium. “What did I miss? Heard Colm dropped by again.”
“Don’t smoke in the house, young man,” Mary reminded No Name, looking concerned.
“I won’t light it,” No Name replied, “just let me hold it to keep some semblance of sanity for what I’m about to confess to you. And I’m just the messenger, mind. You didn’t hear this from me. Keep me unanimous.”
“Anonymous, dear,” Mary helped.
“Whatever.” No Name shook his head. “The thing is—"
Before he could continue, Calico had made his way back down, and now that the coast was clear, his eyes were wide in surprise. “I can’t believe it!” He said, spotting No Name before Mary, but it was too late. “I can’t believe she did it!”
“Who did what?” Tide asked, perplexed.
Calico paused when he saw the landlady, catching the icy glare No Name had shot him, but decided to continue anyway. “Stella slept with Muggs.”
Mary gasped audibly. “Oh no, not Muggs.”
Tide scrunched up his eyebrows in confusion. “Who’s Stella?”
No Name rolled his eyes. “Oh, Spot’s girlfriend has been arrested every other week for the past four weeks.”
“I thought it was six weeks?” Calico threw in.
No Name cackled. “You think it’s been six weeks? He’s twelve, and she’s thirteen. They’ve got a new favorite ice cream flavor every week.”
“That’s not funny, Demetrio,” Mary admonished, looking at him disapprovingly over her reading spectacles.
“I’m sorry, I ain’t trying to be funny,” No Name added, unable to hide a laugh regardless. “I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that Stella would sleep with him.”
“And Spot caught them?” Tide asked. He gestured to the German boy still holding a cat. “That’s what Cal was telling me.”
No Name threw his hands up. “Don’t even get me started on Spot.”
Mary looked from one boy to another, worry evident on her face. “My God, is Spot okay?”
No Named rolled his eyes. “Physically, yes. Mentally, who knows?”
Tide sat upright on the sofa, leaning forward. “What happened exactly?”
Calico pointed to the ceiling in exasperation. “Stella and Muggs were…fraternizing…in the attic when Spot walked in on them.”
“Oh, dear,” Mary rasped, in too much shock to form a coherent sentence.
“Fraternizing?” Tide smirked, pretending to be baffled.
“Yes, you know,” Calico said, disgusted with the prospect. “Canoodling, getting intimate…” He looked to No Name for help.
“Fuck—” No Name stopped short when he caught Mary’s eyes widening beyond what he thought was possible in his peripheral vision. “Playing cards, as Grim calls it.”
“Demetrio!” Mary snapped.
Tide covered his mouth with his empty hand. “Oh my God!”
“Hey,” No Name shrugged, “you wanted to know.”
Mary rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. “What are we going to do about this?”
“Nothing we can do,” No Name said, falling back onto his perch on the ledge near the west-facing window. “Stella’s her own woman, Muggs is a lost cause, and Spot will forget her name by Saturday.”
“Well, all of us will discuss this when they return. Miles and Charles, too.”
Tide exchanged a look with his two friends. “We?”
“All of us?” Calico repeated.
“Discussion?” No Name shot her a sideways look.
“Yes,” Mary insisted, straightening her shoulders. “About the attic in general because I know—I know, that Muggs is not the first. You don’t think I know things, but I know things.”
Tide mumbled something to himself and hocked the apple core in a waste bin across from Calico. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands to his knees before standing. “That’s a shame. Anyone for tea?”
Mary stared into space, still taking in the news as she gave a vague nod. “Tea would be lovely, Logan.”
“I think I might need a drink,” No Name called after him, only to receive another disapproving squint from Mary. “Tea’s nice,” he threw in quietly.
Chapter 15: The Ultimatum
Summary:
“I will not be putting you through the miserable book. The one written by Mr. Comstock that the Children’s Aid Society would like me to teach you out of. Frankly, it isn’t beneficial. I should know. I’ve taught out of it for a decade.” Mary folded her arms, leaning against the chalkboard. “Instead, you’re going to teach me.” The looks of confusion and unease that followed compelled her to uncross her arms and heave another disarming sigh. “I want to know what you know. I want to feel what it’s like to be you. In your time, in your bodies. I want to see what you see through your own eyes. I will answer any questions you have to the best of my ability. And I will listen to your answers as well. Is that a deal?”
Slowly, she watched the assembled boys nod and shrug. Mary nodded in response and pushed herself off the chalkboard. “Good. We’ll have these meetings once a week. Today is Monday, so our next meeting will be the following Monday. I’d like to see all of you back here, and you may bring anyone else you think will benefit from this class. Girls included. Along with that…that Lion Valentino and…friends. Are there any questions, gentlemen?”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
December 1893
Brooklyn, NY
“Miles?” Mary stood at the bottom of the second-floor staircase, drying her soapy hands on her dingy apron as she called up to the bunkroom. A black-eyed, swarthy woman in a traveling ensemble stood beside her. “Please tell the boys they have five minutes. I won’t wait a second longer. It’s nearly midnight, and I have an appointment with the Children’s Aid Society tomorrow. I don’t wish to look like a raccoon!”
Grim leaned over the third-floor railing’s edge, hair damp from bathing and a wooden toothbrush in the side of his mouth. He made a noise that sounded like a garbled R ‘ey gah ‘ee here.
“No, I’m taking a trolley to St. Mark’s Place at seven-thirty.” She gestured to the woman next to her. “I’ve left Mrs. Everly in charge until the next day. She’ll be spending the night on the premises.”
Grim looked to Mrs. Everly, nodded, and disappeared from the railing again, wandering back into the bunk room. Mrs. Everly was in her early thirties. She was a serious, hard-working woman from Lowell, the kind of faithful Labrador who finds they can’t leave the corps, so they teach in it.
Compared to Mrs. Everly, Mary seemed to be about eight feet tall with pale skin, light eyes, and greying eyebrows that thickened above her reading glasses. She looked medieval. She held her hands in the pockets of her apron and observed the assembled boys quietly as they entered the schoolroom on the second floor. They were a typical sampling of every older cohort she could remember.
No Name, his tall frame slumped in a chair and desk that was too small, chuckled, and Mary’s look was like a quick slap.
Her voice was cut of glass. “Good evening.”
The boys—No Name, Tide, Calico, Spot, Muggs, Marquette, and Grim—mumbled an answer.
“Before I leave, I would like to make a few things clear,” Mary began, perching on the large desk at the front of the room before the chalkboard. “While I am gone, you will show Mrs. Everly the same respect and kindness you have shown me. Moreover, when I return, I expect a clean house, free of strangers and all other four-legged strays.” She tilted her head toward Calico.
“How many cats do you have now, Cal?” Grim asked with a concerned furrow of his brow.
Tide rolled his eyes. “Too many.”
Calico shrugged indifferently and stared at his hands. “A baby squirrel outside the back gate lost its mother. I might adopt it.”
“Oh my God,” Muggs groaned, nursing a nasty black eye and a split lip with ice that Mary had wrapped for him. “You are such a woman.”
“Speaking of women,” Mary interjected before another remark could be made. “There will be no more romantic mischief in the attic while I’m out, and that goes for when I return, too. There have been too many occasions where I’ve let some shenanigans slide when I shouldn’t have. But after the last time…”
This snapped all the boys’ eyes back to her in an instant. Slowly, their gaze drifted to each other in confusion and then to anywhere else in the room.
“Yes,” Mary continued, folding her arms stiffly across her gingham blouse. “I know all about your little escapades upstairs. Well, not all about, thank the Lord. But enough to know better. And I must inform you that number sixty-one Poplar Street, our bordello, is out of business indefinitely.”
The boys stared back at her slack-jawed and wide-eyed. No Name, again, appeared to be stifling a laugh, while Calico looked like he might faint from mortification. Tide and Grim avoided her eyes, and Marquette continued doodling with chalk on the little slate before him. Muggs’ face was entirely unreadable. Spot looked at each of them but fixed his hardest of glares on Muggs, who’d recently partaken in such salacious activities with his Stella, no less.
Mary surveyed the mask of innocence the boys struggled to maintain and nodded to herself. “That’s fine.” She approached the other side of the desk and opened a steep drawer, rifling through its contents. In seconds, she’d resurrected about 20 pairs of female undergarments in various shades of white, black, and blue and dropped them atop the desk unceremoniously. “I am no couturier, but these do not look newly store-bought, so it is my best estimate that they once belonged to girls who have since…misplaced them. These lacy relics were discovered in the attic when I went up there to locate spare sheets for Mrs. Everly earlier this evening. As you can see, I found more than just spare sheets.” She fixed her eyes on each of the boys’ faces. “Now. Whose are they?”
She was met with an unsurprising silence. Marquette tilted his head in utter incomprehension. “You mean, to which of us do they belong?”
This got a few laughs from the other boys, making poor Marquette even more confused and Mary more exasperated.
“I think they’re Tide’s,” Grim snorted, elbowing his friend in the ribs. “He wears ‘em ‘neath his trousers.”
“Right, sure,” Tide spat, shoving Grim back harder and gesturing to his crotch. “As if I could shove all this into a pair of women’s bloomers.”
Mary looked away in exasperation. “Mother of God, give me strength…”
Spot squinted at one of the undergarments. “How come that one has blood on it,” he asked flatly, without so much as a wince. Mary followed his gaze and then raised her eyebrows at the underwear in question, covering her mouth momentarily in shock.
Spot tried to hide the way he realized those were Stella’s. He’d seen them once or twice when she’d allowed him to put his hand under her dress.
“Monthly.” No Name looked at Spot like he’d just asked why the sky was blue and shook his head. “Or perhaps someone was the first to—"
“Demetrio Flores, hold your tongue at once!” Mary interrupted him, striking his desk with her hand. “That is an awful, degraded thing to say with such braggadocio.”
“What?” No Name asked, shrugging. “I never said I had anything to do with it. Besides, I don’t get in bed with those sorts.” He nodded to Muggs. “My money’s on Dead Eyes over there.”
“Eat shit, gypsy-scum,” Muggs mumbled, wincing from the pounding headache above his black eye.
"Matthew!" Mary hissed. "That's quite enough!"
No Name let the insult roll off him without so much as a look in Muggs’ direction. “I’m just saying, why is this such a big deal, Mary? Havin’ sex? Who cares if we’re havin’ it?” He caught the raised eyebrow she gave him and backpedaled. “Sorry I was crass, but the only thing we’re afraid of is a disease, not of marriage…or no marriage, rather.”
There was a stereotype revolving around the guys of that Brooklyn lodging house. To be flash around those parts, you needed the following: parents who didn’t care if you’d run away or wound up dead, a nice bunk far from the younger boys, a little extra cash in your pockets, calloused hands, a good corner for business, a strong body, a face easy on the eyes, a vocabulary with the right slang, a preference for the right newspaper, a capacity of severe quantities of alcohol, and a casual attitude toward sex. Experience with lighting an opium pipe was optional.
“It’s easy to see girls here,” Calico said to no one in particular. “You can get in trouble in the dance halls.”
“Sex is a lot more talk than action, anyway. If that makes you feel better, Mary,” Tide added quickly, rallying behind No Name further as Mary took her glasses off, closed her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Besides, you’re the one who proposed the ‘human sexuality’ lessons to the CAS. You know, providin’ an academic excuse for talkin’ dirty.”
Grim masked his laugh with a cough and then shifted in his seat. His friends always had a way of running circles around Mary with her own words. He liked the old landlady fine as if she were his grandmother, and he instantly regretted laughing when Mary turned her sharp eyes to him.
“I could do without your immaturity tonight, Miles,” she said, bracing herself with another slow sigh. “I know…” she frowned and tried again, “I know about you and Natalie in the side alley behind the outhouse on those sporadic nights, and I’m worried…I’m not the only one who knows.”
Grim looked like he’d been slapped. He sputtered for a moment, looking around the room. “Well, now they certainly know.”
“Please, Grim,” Tide waved a hand. “We’ve known for a while.”
“Yeah, we also know what Natalie sounds like when she’s…engaged,” No Name added with a devilish smirk, catching an icy blue glare from Grim.
Calico nodded with a somewhat uncomfortable expression. “And what you sound like, Grim.”
Grim and the others in the room spent their weekends the same way. Friday night was at the Pub or anywhere with cheap liquor. While they got happier, they’d invite more friends and neighbors back to the lodging house or stroll around Brooklyn. Then they’d get wasted. Grim drank gin and tonics. Tide drank beer. Sometimes, they’d buy a keg at a good deal, listen to the songs of the Bowery, and attend spontaneous parties where they danced to vaudeville and feverish fiddling music. They stayed at the parties until the coppers came or they passed out. They didn’t have to wake up on Saturday until 2 or 3 in the afternoon. Go back to the lodging house and clean any messes. Then start again Saturday night around 8 or 9. Burlesque shows didn’t start until 10 or 11.
Brooklyn etiquette determined that you rarely go with a lady-friend unless you knew the party’s host. There was a double standard, but Grim found the girls no better than the guys. There was pressure to lose one’s virginity before leaving the lodging house for good. There may have been some virgins who left after they reached the maxed-out age, but not a lot that Grim could recall. Those fellows hadn’t shown much interest in girls anyway.
If you were a working-class girl, your best bet was an apprentice of some kind—banker’s apprentice, politician’s errand boy, or a shop clerk. Newsboys, bootblacks, and canal boys were trouble. Mary knew what her boys got up to. There was almost a fixed routine, a protocol for these things, well known to the boys in her charge. They were passed down. Usually, it was routine, like a show or stroll in the park or sporting event and coffee. A light necking in Mary’s parlor or front steps until she said enough was enough, and he promised the girl he’d call on her again. Next was always a nice dinner, show, and a bottle of cheap American wine – even Spot had tailored an evening for Stella. None of the guys knew what French wine was, save for Marquette. This usually resulted in sexual consummation, incredibly if intoxicated, in an alley, beneath the pier—but no spending the night. He might call upon her again. The third date, Mary figured out, was always dinner and dancing, including drinks and a fee for whatever band was playing at the dance hall. Complete penetration in Mary’s attic. They’d stay together all night. He’d never call on her again.
People disappear after sex, Spot learned. No Name couldn’t talk to his women afterward because he was wasted when they got together. On weekends, the attic resembled a hotel room.
The boys never asked Mary for protection. They got it from other vendors, including Lion Valentino. It was assumed that someone in the house had shields somewhere at any given time. Spot heard Grim asking Tide, Tide asking No Name, No Name asking Calico, and so on. Syphilis was an occasional source of fear, but thankfully, none of them had been unlucky enough to contract it. Muggs once told Spot he could catch syphilis from the tubs in the lodging house. Mary could tell Spot had skipped out on baths for a few weeks and opted for quick rinses in the sink.
“You know, Cards Mahoney told me the washrooms at his lodging house are for boys and girls,” Marquette said, continuing his beautiful illustration of a bridge on his slate. “Sex is… occasional. But he wants to keep his options open.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “James Mahoney is your age, Charles, correct?”
“Oui.” Marquette blew chalk dust off his hand. “He says he has sex, and Shakespeare and Lion have sex, but they don’t step out with girls. They can spend the night together and eat breakfast. The whole lodging house knows about it. The landlord s’en fiche.”
Before Mary could interject, Grim added, “But they have single rooms, Marquette."
"Which is why we must get creative, quand même," Marquette said.
Spot recalled Muggs saying something similar about stepping out with girls. Muggs said having a relationship meant surrendering time with the other guys. He’d overheard Muggs telling Crazy Cohen that he didn’t want to marry a virgin like his father wanted him to, but he also didn’t want to marry someone who’d been used by a whole lot of men—like his mother. That left Spot with a strange, sick feeling in his stomach. It didn’t seem right.
That seemed to be the consensus for the others in the lodging house, Spot realized. But if one of them slept around a lot, like No Name, he was considered a hero. Sex amongst that crowd was very casual, Spot knew. It was a nightmare or a paradise. When Spot watched the older boys break up with their affairs, he could sense how awkward it was when they saw the girls at parties.
Spot could count the couples on the one hand: Natalie and Grim, to name one. Tide, Calico, and No Name slept around with several regular girls on and off. Marquette was hopelessly and unrequitedly in love with Camille Moreau. Muggs’ habits were inconclusive. Even though Spot wasn’t nearly as experienced as his older comrades, he knew the ins and outs of the game. If a sexual affair became necessary, Spot was to keep in mind the following:
This was not her first time. She’s lying.
Girls already in relationships will not leave their beaus. It could jeopardize her future. Well, save for Stella, Spot realized.
And even if Spot had the cleanest sheets in the world, he could not, under any circumstances, invite this girl into the bunkroom.
Spot could recall Tide telling him about life in the lodging house years ago when Tide was Spot’s age. The older lodgers at the time would award daily prizes and a grand prize at the week’s end for the guy who got the most gratification. Intercourse was worth seven points. Oral sex, meaning performed on or to a guy, was worth 3 points. Oral sex performed by a guy on a girl was worth nothing. It was considered a tip if it happened, which was less likely. But there was more.
Points were multiplied by the numerical rating the girl naturally received. “Getting a French favor from a hot corn girl was worth more than going to bed with a prostitute,” Tide had explained to Spot. The work was taken more seriously. “There’s an honor system.”
One of the difficulties of casual, competitive sex, of course, was birth control. When No Name confessed that he would inquire about the situation's safety, Calico responded with shock and betrayal, “It’s kind of bad to ask if the girl has protection. If you’re going to go that far, you should warn her. That’s a sly thing to do.”
“And would you treat a hooker with the same respect?” No Name asked.
“Of course,” Calico said. “My values don’t change.”
“If we’re all quite finished,” Mary interrupted, desperately struggling to maintain control. She looked from the four older boys to Marquette, who was still hunched over his sketch, to Muggs, who now had his head resting on his arms against the desk and eyelids threatening to close at any moment. Spot looked like he was making himself as small as possible, slumping in his chair like he might try to slide out of it. “I know all of you are having sex in one way or another,” Mary tried again, catching the look of panic Spot gave her, and then quickly tried to hide. “I suppose…that’s healthy. But if you cannot reach the maturity level of being responsible and safe while…engaged,” she continued, borrowing the term from No Name, “what I mean to say is, your level of advancement is no concern of mine nor anyone else’s in this house. The truth is, not one of you in this room knows what you’re doing.” She cut Tide off when she saw his mouth open to speak. “I said not one.”
She again reached into her desk, pulled out a well-worn copy of a green-bound, sun-faded book, and let it fall to her desk with a thud. It jolted Muggs awake.
“I will not be putting you through the miserable book. The one written by Mr. Comstock that the Children’s Aid Society would like me to teach you out of. Frankly, it isn’t beneficial. I should know. I’ve taught out of it for a decade.” Mary folded her arms, leaning against the chalkboard. “Instead, you’re going to teach me.” The looks of confusion and unease that followed compelled her to uncross her arms and heave another disarming sigh. “I want to know what you know. I want to feel what it’s like to be you. In your time, in your bodies. I want to see what you see through your own eyes. I will answer any questions you have to the best of my ability. And I will listen to your answers as well. Is that a deal?”
Slowly, she watched the assembled boys nod and shrug. Mary nodded in response and pushed herself off the chalkboard. “Good. We’ll have these meetings once a week. Today is Monday, so our next meeting will be the following Monday. I’d like to see all of you back here, and you may bring anyone else you think will benefit from this class. Girls included. Along with that…that Lion Valentino and…friends. Are there any questions, gentlemen?”
Calico stoically raised a hand.
“Yes, Hans?”
“Is this…I mean, are you serious?” Calico shook his head. “I think this is inappropriate.”
“I think it’s flash,” Marquette replied, no longer invested in the drawing.
“What if we don’t come to the meetings?” Muggs asked, forcing himself to sit up. “What if the mood doesn’t strike me? What if I already know everything?”
Mary lifted her chin and peered at him through her reading glasses with a composed frustration. “You live under my roof, and my concern is what you do under my roof. I will not have anarchy and ignorance about it. You will come to the meetings, Matthew, and if anyone else has a problem with this, then you shouldn’t be doing what you’re doing.” She gestured to the pile of girls’ undergarments. “This is direct evidence of immaturity, irresponsibility, and poor hygiene. And I will not have repeated offenses. Any other questions?”
Grim raised his hand this time, surprising Spot. Mary nodded to him. “Why go through all this, Mary? Don’t you already have enough to do?”
“Go through all what?”
Grim shrugged. “Why this approach…a once a week ‘class.’ That’s a little excessive, no? I don’t understand.”
Mary considered this, chewing on her lip and narrowing her eyes at how No Name suppressed a smirk. “Would you prefer I move up the curfew to nine o’clock at night, lock the attic off for good, ban any girls from crossing the threshold, and bring in one of the society’s reverends for weekly lessons?” She asked, gesturing to the abandoned book on her desk. The horrified reaction on the others’ faces almost made her laugh. “Christian and clean, and everything condensed down to a simple pledge of complete abstinence?”
Tide grimaced, and Muggs buried his head in his arms again, groaning into the desk.
“Or I could take you on a trip to the maternity wing on Blackwell’s Island, and afterward, we could discuss your findings,” Mary finished, tilting her head at Grim.
“Now, that’s scary,” No Name mumbled.
“Or would you rather have an open dialogue?” Mary asked, redirecting their attention once more. “And talk about it. Have the facts. The real, messy, complicated, confusing facts about sex.”
The boys were silent until Muggs raised his head again, staring at her through his panda-bear-bruised eyes, and offered a somewhat unsettled, “You’ve gone senile.”
“Maybe,” Mary said at last, opening the door to the classroom, indicating they were free. “But one day, you’ll thank me for my craziness. You’ll see. But if you have serious reservations, Matthew, there is a catholic lodging house down the block. Or you can write to the CAS yourself.” She held the door open for the boys, but none moved to get up, still watching her in uncertainty. “Well, have it your way.” With that, she turned off the gas lamps, leaving them in the dark and shocked.
Chapter 16: Katerina Tracey
Summary:
Jesse caught the corners of her mouth curling into a genuine smile, a dreamy sort, with the pretty dimples he knew mirrored his own. “Right then, it’s settled. You’re not Katerina Russo, and you aren’t Katerina Moore. You’re Katerina Tracey. It’s just as good.” He paused and winked. “Better, even.”
With that, Kate made a T in the wall beside her K and grinned at the handiwork. “Katerina Tracey,” she tried out, the name rolling off her tongue like a dessert. Something about it tasted sweet. And now. “Am I really to live with you and Ro?”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
December 1891
Randall’s Island, NY
“Katherine, come ‘ere, I gotta show you something.”
Kate couldn’t help but grin at the shimmer in Jesse’s mischievous green eyes, his eyebrow quirked all curious-like, and his dimples flexing like little caverns with their minds. She was perched on the windowsill of the fourth-floor laundry room, dangling her legs off the side. She returned the cigarette to Moses, who reclined on the fire escape across from her.
“Mind if I steal her, Moses?” Jesse asked, offering Kate his hand to pull her back inside the room. “I know she’s a real jabber-jane, but she grows on you.”
“She was just telling me about the Battle of Agincourt. William Shakespeare could’ve learned a thing or two about dramatic twists from that bloody mess.” Moses shrugged, pulling on the cigarette and giving Jesse a curious head tilt. “Well, if the chit’s okay by you, I suppose she’s okay by me.”
Jesse smiled and gave the nod, suddenly pulling Kate backward through the window and whisking her away. Kate yelped from the abrupt pull, thinking for a moment she’d fallen. “Moses!” She called in protest, but the other boy did little to get her back and instead flicked ash from the railing.
“Later, Kitty-cat.”
Jesse sailed through hallways and down flights of stairs, blazing through clusters of other inmates as if he were late to catch a train. Kate scrambled after him. They descended lower and lower until Jesse resurrected a string of keys from his back pocket as they neared a door on the east wing, isolated and gloomy in appearance. And only then did Kate realize where they were headed.
“Solitary?” Kate asked, breathless, her cheeks red from exertion. “What’s down there that you’ve got to show me?”
“You’ll see, little cat,” Jesse replied, turning the stolen keys in the lock and checking to make sure the coast was clear before nudging Kate after him. “Was easy enough to steal the keys. Old Mr. Keating always passes out after lunch and a pint of brandy.”
With a creak of the dank, rotting door leading to the solitary cells, Jesse kicked it the rest of the way open and peered in, searching for something. “This way,” he said lowly to Kate, taking her hand gently in his and leading her to a dark back corner. He nodded to the poor devils behind some of the bars, most of them big and bad-looking to Kate.
“Jesse,” Kate whispered, squeezing his hand a little tighter, “I don’t like it down here—”
“Here.” Jesse stopped, pointing at an unlocked, empty cell around the corner. He grabbed a flickering lantern off the wall and stepped into the cell, beckoning for Kate to follow. “Look. Below the bench.”
Curiously, Kate studied Jesse for a long moment and then to where he was pointing beneath the stone bench. She got down to the filthy ground, using the light from the lantern to illuminate the dark wall she was meant to be staring at. “What? I don’t get it.”
“CT,” Jesse explained, joining her on the ground and tracing the carved initials on the wall with an extended index finger. “My old man had a stint here as a boy. He told me he etched his name on the wall down here. Under a bench. Well, I’ve finally found it.”
“CT,” Kate echoed quietly, tracing it after Jesse’s finger. “CT…”
“Colm Tracey,” Jesse explained. She could feel his breath on her neck, making the hairs on her skin stand on end. The way he whispered his father’s name unnerved Kate. He said it with a sense of venom. “Never did tell me why he was here. Breaking shop windows or playing truant is my guess.”
“Was he big like you or small like me?” Kate asked, still on her stomach beside Jesse, staring at the wobbly letters.
“Sixteen, he was,” Jesse said back. “Two years after his sister died. The year he met my ma.”
“Were they in love, your papa and mama? Were they happy to have you?” Kate wondered aloud and then looked slightly embarrassed for asking. “My mama says I was a bad dream.”
Jesse gave her a sidelong glance and dug around in his pocket, pulling a sharp little potato-peeling knife from the kitchens. “How’s about we put our names here, too? You and me. Leave a mark on this damned place.”
“Do we dare?”
“Sure, why not?” Jesse pulled the lantern closer and then got to work, etching an N and a T beneath his father’s inscription. “My ma named me Nikolai, after her father. My middle name, Jesse, came from my grandmother’s brother, who died in war.” He turned to Kate, handing her the knife once he was finished. “Where’d Katerina come from?”
Kate reached out and began carving out a shaky K. “Mama picked it because it was her nonna’s. Oh, that means grandmother.”
Jesse nodded quietly, watching Kate begin to carve an M, but he stopped her after she etched the straight line. “Make it a T,” he whispered, sounding hoarse. “Katerina Tracey. How’s that sound?”
“Not like me,” Kate replied, frowning at Jesse’s request. “I’m not a Tracey. And I can’t lie or lark to a wall that will be my mark for the rest of time.”
Jesse caught her hand again as it was about to come into contact with the rotting wooden panels again. “It ain’t a lark, and it ain’t a lie. It’s more like…a wish. I wish you could share my name and live with me beyond this place. A nice life we’d have.”
Kate looked at him, puzzled in the flickering shadows. “But…you’ve asked Ro to marry you. She’s going to be your wife, and besides, I’m too little—”
Jesse’s look of confusion suddenly dissipated, and his boyish dimples returned with that smile. “Solnyshka, I ain’t askin’ you to marry me. You’re a bright thing, but sometimes you’re a regular space-drifter. No, I’m asking you to be like…a sister. An honorary Tracey. Wouldn’t you like to come live with Ro and me and meet my brother Matthew and sister Colleen? We could be a real family.”
“Oh.” Kate’s voice was smaller now, somewhere deep in the back of her throat. She searched his face for any signs of deceit and found none. Could he mean it? Did he want her to be his family? Her? “I suppose…that would be the best wish ever come true.”
Jesse caught the corners of her mouth curling into a genuine smile, a dreamy sort, with the pretty dimples he knew mirrored his own. “Right then, it’s settled. You’re not Katerina Russo, and you aren’t Katerina Moore. You’re Katerina Tracey. It’s just as good.” He paused and winked. “Better, even.”
With that, Kate made a T in the wall beside her K and grinned at the handiwork. “Katerina Tracey,” she tried out, the name rolling off her tongue like a dessert. Something about it tasted sweet. And now. “Am I really to live with you and Ro?”
Again, Jesse didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took the knife from Kate again and began working on a new set. AT. “Aurora…Tracey…” he mumbled as he finished each letter. Kate studied the little makeshift hemp string around his left finger. He paused and turned to look at Kate. “Ro will need help when the time comes. Can I count on you?”
“When the time comes for what?” Kate asked, and then her eyes went wide. “The baby!” She laughed a little. “Christ, I’m on a roll today. I don’t know what kind of cigarettes Moses smokes, but I should stop sharing them.”
Jesse smiled knowingly and nodded. “Yeah, the baby. It’s good she’s out of here in a few weeks. Snyder won’t let the girls keep them.”
“Will you have more?” Kate asked, getting to her feet after Jesse and dusting off her dress. “After this one, I mean. In case this one’s a boy. You must have a girl.”
Jesse laughed. “And why’s that, little cat?” His eyes looked like they were aching him, it seemed to Kate.
“Because I’d like my name to be on a real Tracey, not just an honorary one. You can name her Katerina.”
January 1892
Ossining, NY
Jesse has been convicted, Kate thought, and will now rot in a Sing Sing cell until they hang him. If he’s wonderfully lucky, his neck will snap and spare him the—
Kate had spent the night with Ro in her Brooklyn boarding house the night before, as they’d be waking up before dawn, braving the chilly winter morning. They snuck onto a nearby train headed for Niagara Falls that stopped off at Ossining. Ro brought along some bread and apples for breakfast on the way, and Kate packed a small, knotted handkerchief filled with hard-boiled eggs and a flask of water. The girls quickly hid amongst the working-class commuters, using their wits to avoid the conductor’s keen eye. Upon reaching the formidable prison, they blended in with the visiting families. Ro paid the entry fee with a few coins she’d saved up. They kept their voices low—aware that children's visiting prisoners was frowned upon. Ro passed for much older, given her more obvious pregnancy. Once inside, they checked in at the visitor’s desk, claiming to be Jesse's distant relatives. Kate noticed how skeptically the guards were eying them, though they were allowed to pass with a stern warning about proper behavior and to say nothing to other prisoners.
The wind had turned dry as old bones after snowfall. With his hands in his pockets, Jesse awaited Ro and Kate in the open visitor’s courtyard between the chapel and one of the many cell blocks. The sand-like flecks had frozen in odd drifts against the benches, sparkling uncannily in the shadows of sandstone archways. An owl perched on one of the parapets hooted tenderly, a sorrowful and empty sound. Drifts of cloud cover concealed and revealed the sunrise, leaving Jesse one moment a silhouetted prisoner and the next a glowing young man in his prime.
Then, the morning's peace was rent by the clatter of prisoners’ voices mingled with the sampling of big boots.
He saw Ro and Kate walking in a disorderly line of other visitors. Kate had just found a long stick, the variety begging to be a blade, a baton, or a staff, but she carried it slack in her fingers. Her face was so disinterested, so…crestfallen…so resigned…that Jesse grew acutely aware of his surroundings once more. From the pulse of his headache to the leather book in his hand to the specific grind of his boots against the paving stones because this moment was important to him. Kate’s burgundy dress called back the red of their first encounter when she’d been covered in sacramental wine and running for her life, and she was perfect. That was what Jesse needed to say to her. His mother had taught him a lesson, though one he’d never indeed be able to thank her for. Kate, like Ro, could never go back. And Kate, like Ro, like Colleen, was perfect. As lovely and painful as an unsaid, I love you.
Everything about her.
Seeing him, Kate smiled. Let go of Ro’s hand and start running. Before Jesse knew what he was doing, one of his knees was on the dirty stone, and he’d an armful of Kate. For a moment, she stood still and tense.
Then she hugged him back. About as hard as she could.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t know how,” Jesse said over her shoulder. He was talking about his fate, which Kate had only learned from Ro several nights before. She’d promised Jesse she’d tell Kate, but she was not to say a word to Colleen. Kate smelled faintly of bonfire smoke and something warm and entirely her own. “But I was thinking about what you said once. You aren’t a bad dream. You are you, no matter what your mother says. I’d fix it all if I could, but that doesn’t mean I want you to be different. The Katherine here now is the right Katherine. Do you understand what I mean?”
Jesse wanted her to know what he meant as he’d wished for very few things. And every bit as much as the ones that were for him.
When he’d managed to stop strangling the poor child, she pulled back a little. She eyed his bruises and thought about touching them. She didn’t, though. She just smiled in her sober, careful fashion. She set her petite hands on his shoulders and squeezed.
And then she murmured, “I understand. But last night, I was in a bad dream.”
“Why?” Jesse asked.
Her pale face reappeared more clearly as he brushed dark strands of tangled hair from her face and tucked them behind her ears. Her green eyes were brimming, her nose red. “I know I won’t see you again,” she whispered, nodding tiredly at the empty corridor. “I savvy the truth when I’m awake. But in the morning, before my eyes opened, I didn’t. In my head, we’re going to live together as a family. There’s Ro, Raffi, Grim, and the new baby. There’s Moses again. There’s a lovely little flat just before I open my eyes, so I don’t want to open them. You’re there, too. You’re there. I think we’re getting a happy ending, and it hurts.”
She was right. It hurt like the devil.
And how wonderful it would’ve been to tell her she’d forget about him one day. He’d have given a great deal to say so with any certainty.
“I’d not wish to fight against the likes of you,” Jesse informed her, carefully schooling his voice. “To think that you’ve survived such cruelty for a little girl all this time and never told a soul. Anyone else would’ve been sniveling all over the city. Hell, I’d have been scared.”
Sniffing indulgently, she pulled away a fraction. “You’re teasing me.”
“I’m not. Most folks are pure cowards next to you.”
Kate heaved a great sigh.
“But don’t do that anymore, all right? You know you don’t need to lie on my account, nor Ro’s. You don’t need to stay silent either if something eats at you. Tell Ro, or Grim, or anyone else you’d like. Having courage and going it alone isn’t the same thing. Trust me, I learned that the hard way.”
“There’s nothing I’d not do to get you out of here,” Kate muttered. “I’d sooner die.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I’d do terrible things, Jesse.”
“You don’t need to. I’ve done them for you.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Listen, I’ve something for you.” He resurrected the leather book and offered it to her. “The journal I’ve been keeping since I was a might older than you. The one you’ve seen me writing in. It’s all the things I never said. All the lies I’ve told, the times I’ve stayed silent. I suppose I’m hard at confessing—dying man’s nerves. But I’d rather you be my priest.”
“You’re still mad at me for reading your letters.” She frowned. “I don’t like when you’re mad at me.”
“I’m mad at the nib-like cur who sent you running from your dorm in the middle of the night. Never at you. I love you."
Kate straightened. Jesse only hoped she was minding him thoroughly. I love you. A fair percentage of her life had been a wide-awake nightmare. But suppose he could remake her into simply a little girl with green eyes, dimples, and high cheekbones instead of a melancholy, alcoholic adult with the untroubled complexion of a child. He’d do it in a heartbeat in that case, but that didn’t make him any less fond of the Kate who existed now.
She took the journal and tucked it under her arm. A doubtful shadow lurked at the edges of her eyes. Ro had joined them by now, greeting Jesse with the saddest smile Kate had ever seen. She watched Ro reach up to inspect the darkened bruise under his right eye, gently tracing it and then biting her lip helplessly.
“Do you believe that Jesse?” Kate asked, dabbing her face with her sleeve. “That having courage isn’t the same as going it alone?”
“Every word of it.”
Kate took a long moment to gaze at him, watching him bend down to kiss Ro’s head and then wink at Kate.
“And you call me a liar,” she concluded as she hugged Ro and Jesse tightly. Their last real one as a family. Her eyes became blurry again, and Kate desperately tried to wipe away her tears. "I'll miss you, Jesse. And...and..." Kate couldn't look Jesse in the eyes. Not this time. So he tilted her head toward him, encouraging her to cry and say whatever it was. She could feel Ro petting her hair, the soothing touch of her delicate fingers mussing Kate's locks. Without warning, Jesse had pulled her up to sit on his hip, putting Kate at his eye level once more.
"What is it, solnyshka?" He pushed a tear away from beneath her eye with his thumb. "Go on."
"I love you, too." As she said those words, Kate looked like a tremendous weight had been lifted. "I love you, too."
January 1892
Randall's Island, NY
Grim looked straight ahead, realizing he couldn’t avoid the cats again now that he’d been found with Katherine Moore in his bed. A shiver ran down his spine, but he still managed not to show any sign of panic. “How did you meet Ro?” he asked Jesse, who sat to his right on the bench outside the warden’s office.
Anything was better than discussing their coming fates. It had been two days since Moses died. Two days since Jesse had been given solitary. Two days since Kate had been discovered, hiding in Grim’s bed from marauding guards. Now, they both sat, waiting to be given punishments from the warden himself.
Jesse bit his lip, frowned, and, in an ideally studied manner, smiled as tenderly as he could, which was almost ridiculous, given their circumstances. “It was in the city, near the harbor. Was playin’ poker when Ro came in.”
“How was she?”
“As she always is…beautiful.” He brushed his index finger across his lips and shrugged. “But sad. She looked like she’d shed quite a lot of tears. Her nose was swollen, and she was disheveled. She passed by me, and I offered her a seat on my lap for luck. It was stupid. But I hoped it would make her smile…”
“And then?”
“She nearly threw a good tankard of ale at me.” Jesse turned his head. “But then we got to talking all night. I’d never felt so familiar with a stranger, so natural.”
“What was she crying about?”
“Got into an argument with her father, said it was the first time he’d ever made her…” Jesse watched Grim flinch as the door to the warden’s office opened with an unsettling creak. Jesse followed his wide-eyed stare over his shoulder and met Whalen’s malicious expression. “Scared.”
“Up,” Whalen said gruffly, holding the door open wider. He nodded to the office where Snyder sat beyond in shadow. “And in.”
Grim’s back stung so severely that he thought he might pass out from the pain at any moment. The afternoon sun had dipped low over the horizon, casting long shadows across the cold, barren yard of the refuge. The scent of freshly fallen icy rain hung in the air, mingling with the musty odor of old stones and worn-out wooden planks.
As the guards led Grim away from the bleak courtyard, his frigid body trembled with pain and exhaustion. The cats had left their mark, etching deep welts across his back, a dark testament to the cruelty he’d faced. Alone in his dimly lit cell in the solitary block, he slumped onto the cold, hard floor, his mind consumed by thoughts of better times. Of the lodging house, his friends, and the old landlady Mary, who cared for him. He knew Jesse was down there, too, somewhere, with him. But no other prisoners were held in that dark place.
The hours dragged, each minute stretching into eternity, as Grim languished in the icebox of a dungeon. His body cried out for respite, but the guard on duty remained indifferent to his suffering. Mr. Kinney reveled in his power, finding twisted pleasure in the agony he inflicted upon inmates. Grim knew as well as most that kindness was a foreign concept in the refuge, and hope was like a distant memory.
Then, just as Mr. Kinney’s shift ended for the evening, an eerie specter of a matron arrived. Mesmerizing and venomous as a serpent. She held a letter in her hands and seemed profoundly distressed by its contents—gnawing at her lip, her striking gray eyes skimming the lines while she twisted a piece of golden hair. It was down, falling about her shoulders like light piercing through a cloud. Tucked her arms was a pile of what looked like laundry. In her other hand, she carried a large bucket. The way of water was evident. She smiled upon seeing Grim. She moved at a speed with a strange amount of grace, her footsteps barely making a sound as she approached Grim’s cell. Her eyes bore into him, and with that same disarming smile, she unlocked the heavy iron door and entered, her presence filling the cramped space.
“Hello, my dear,” Mrs. Anderson cooed, her voice dripping like honey from her lips. “I’ve brought you some clean linens. And I can fetch warm water to soothe your wounds.” She kicked a large basin from the darkness into the cell. Her attention continued to flicker between Grim and the page before she folded the paper, resting it in her front pocket. She wore her crimson dressing gown over her petticoats and corset, its folds spilling graphically over the floor. Her appearance made Grim flush the same shade. He knew perfectly well he wasn’t meant to be seeing her in this fashion.
She held out a small flask of something she'd pulled from an inside pocket. "Drink. It'll help you sleep through the pain tonight."
He hesitated, unable to shake the feeling that something lurked beneath her saccharine demeanor. Like it was a trap, and by accepting the drink, he'd be reported to Snyder in an instant.
“Go on,” she urged, lightly brushing his hands with her fingers. “And let me tend to your wounds, Miles. I promise it won’t hurt. You don't want them to get infected down here.”
Grim took the flask and brought it to his mouth, pulling a few sips and wincing at the bitter taste. It made his head spin.
“What if a guard comes down and sees you like…this?” Grim asked, hesitantly removing his shirt and sitting on the bench as Mrs. Anderson made up his cot.
Passing her tongue over her lower lip, Mrs. Anderson considered this query. She took her time.
She gazed at him knowingly. “If you’d rather I fetch Mr. Whalen to clean you up…” Grim looked away, eyeing the tub as she filled it with water from the large bucket. “Come here, come on,” she encouraged girlishly as she held out her hand. “Kneel over the basin. There’s a good man.”
With a mix of apprehension and resignation, Grim allowed her to clean the raw, throbbing wounds on his back. Mrs. Anderson’s touches were surprisingly gentle, her fingers working skillfully as she tended to his injuries. She whispered comforting words in his ear, her eyes lingering.
“You’re so brave,” she murmured, her voice laced with something Grim couldn’t place. “It’s a shame to see you suffer so.”
Another shiver ran down his spine, and he instinctively recoiled as she dried his back lightly with a towel. She began applying a light, creamy salve to the wounds, her breath warm against his ear as she said, “Remember, I’m here whenever you need someone to confide in.” Her words hung in the air like a cryptic promise, leaving him with a sense of stomach-fluttering confusion as she picked up the basin and emptied the contents in a drain just across from the cell. “I'm not some little girl who knows nothing of the world.”
Mrs. Anderson paused, tilting her head and offering Grim a small, amused smile. “Katherine Moore was fond of you, wasn’t she?” she wondered softly. “I don't blame her one bit, of course.”
From above them somewhere, a large grandfather clock chimed, reverberating from the many cell walls. Grim stood in silent wonderment with his shirt in his hand and felt a warm flush of protectiveness for the little girl creeping in like flood tides. Her words had wound around his throat, soft as a cashmere glove.
“I never touched Katherine in a foul way, Mrs. Anderson,” he breathed.
“I know.” She nodded, still pensive. “You had better get some sleep, then, hadn’t you?”
Somehow, Grim reached his bed without faltering. Somehow, he found himself lying on his side again, staring at the darkened cells surrounding him. As he lay there, he heard the shuffling of feet from somewhere near him and then heard Jesse’s voice.
“Grim,” Jesse called quietly, his voice barely audible despite the eerie silence. He was one or two cells down from Grim. “I don’t have much time before they send me upriver. But I need to ask you somethin’ important.”
Grim struggled to sit up, wincing as the pain in his back flared. And something else, too. He was drowsy. He looked toward the sound of Jesse’s voice with concern, knowing that the older boy’s fate was far from bright.
“I know you’ll be alright, Jesse,” Grim said with as much reassurance as he could muster. “You’re the strongest dead rabbit I know.”
Jesse shook his head, a small, bittersweet smile crossing his lips. “It ain’t about me. It’s about Katherine. That little lunan.”
Grim nodded, picturing the fragile eight-year-old they’d taken under their wing. “Okay.”
“I need you to promise me something.” Jesse’s voice was choked with emotion that Grim was unaccustomed to hearing. “I won’t be here to watch over her anymore, but I must know she’ll be safe. You’re the only one I trust to do that, savvy?”
Grim stared off, tears welling as he heard Jesse’s plea. “Yeah…yeah, I promise, Jesse,” Grim whispered, sounding hoarse. “I’ll take care of her, just like you would.”
A hint of relief flickered across Jesse’s face. “Thank you, Grim. You don’t know how much that means to me. She’s tough, but the streets are tougher. Just look out for her, please.”
Grim nodded again, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he was losing a friend and taking on a tremendous responsibility very soon. But he knew he had to be strong for Jesse and Kate.
“Tell her,” Jesse continued, his voice wavering, “I’m sorry I couldn’t give her a proper family. I’ll think of her and that she should be brave, no matter what.”
“I’ll tell her,” Grim promised, his voice quiet as tears streamed down his cheeks. "I won't let you down, Jesse."
"You can't." Jesse took a long, pained sigh. "This is the biggest thing I've ever asked of anyone. Ro will have the baby to look after. You're all Katherine will have."
There was silence again until the mattress in Jesse’s cell squeaked, as he seemed to have gotten in bed for the night. “You’re a good kid, Grim. Don’t let this place beat you.”
Settling under the blankets of his bed, Grim closed his eyes, trying to imagine he was elsewhere for the night. But before he could drift off, Jesse spoke to him again. This time, his voice carried a more bitter edge, giving Grim goosebumps.
“I imagine you’ll hear some things tonight and the next few nights—terrible, awful things. But remember who I am and what I stand for,” Jesse said. He didn’t wait for Grim to reply. “Best to just keep sleeping. Okay?”
Grim didn’t quite understand what Jesse had meant by that. He could only mutter a weak ‘okay’ response and close his eyes again. He was drifting in and out of sleep, haunted by the same nightmare of the cats and his screams, when he was awoken by the sound of his cell door creaking lightly. He peered into the darkness to see Mrs. Anderson in her nightgown, her face slightly flushed. There was a hint of mischief on her face, the look she always had when she looked at him, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand.
“Mrs. Anderson? Are you alright?” Grim asked sleepily. Suddenly, His body felt heavy, and the walls were spinning.
She didn’t answer him immediately. Instead, her hand swung and caressed Grim’s face as she set her lantern beside the bed. “Yes, Miles. I just thought I left something down here. Could you help me find it?"
Grim nodded in apprehension, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He continued to stare at her, waiting for further instruction. "What did you lose?"
“My stockings,” she hummed. “And my bloomers. They're both missing. Peculiar, isn't it?"
The matron walked closer to him, and Grim could see her. He tried to sit up, weakened by whatever had been in the flask he'd drank from.
“Nell!” Jesse’s voice was like an alarm going off. The matron froze, as did Grim, and the two of them looked off into the darkness. “Nell, don’t tell me you’re spending the night with the likes of him. I’ll give you a better ride than he could any day.”
Grim exhaled as she slowly pivoted. She raised the lantern and tossed her hair, keeping one hand on her hip. “Jesse, aren’t you meant to be sleeping?”
In the faint glow of Mrs. Anderson’s lantern, as she raised it, Grim could barely see Jesse leaning against the bars of his cell. “I ain’t sleepin’ until you ain’t able to walk up the stairs straight.” He slammed the bars and, with a frightening roar of a yell, “Come ‘ere, Nell! Been waiting all night!”
Grim flinched at his change of tone. He had become everything Snyder said he was. A monster. Uncivilized. Debauched.
Intrigued, with a wicked glimmer in her eyes, Mrs. Anderson exited the cell and locked the door behind her. Just as quickly, she went to Jesse’s cell, turning the keys in the lock, overwrought with anticipation. Jesse watched her turn the keys, then caught Grim’s shocked eyes from down the way.
“Faster ‘an that, ya little minx,” Jesse demanded, reaching around to squeeze her rear. “Faster.”
Mrs. Anderson fumbled with the keys. ‘Had a change of heart about that wretched Moore girl?”
“I don’t fuck little prima-donna-pinafore trash,” Jesse growled, his eyes gleaming as they devoured the sight of Mrs. Anderson’s ample cleavage. “Just you.”
Stealing Nell’s lantern and moving it to the opposite corner of his cell so Grim could no longer see him, Jesse grabbed the matron’s arm as soon as she slid the door open. Snatched her so fast, it looked to Grim like she’d vanished into thin air, followed by a feral snarl from Jesse and something of a little scream and giggle from the matron.
“Hungry, boy, aren’t you?” Mrs. Anderson tsked, smiling as he ravaged her neck with his lips. “Easy.”
“I ain’t takin’ it easy on you, Nell. Not tonight.”
There were more giggles as he ripped off her nightgown, expertly undoing the laces and strings from her corset.
“You like being with a real woman, don’t you?” she asked him breathlessly as he roughly shoved her against the peeling wall, picking her up with one hand and undoing his trousers with the other. “More so than that little, dirty chit. The beastly creature she was.”
“If I’d known you were gonna talk about that little tramp so much,” Jesse hissed, situating her, grabbing onto her thighs, and vigorously moving his right hand beneath her to get himself worked up, “I would’ve shoved it in your mouth first to keep you nice n’ quiet.”
“Is that a promise, Mr. Tracey?”
Grim settled back nervously on his bed, hearing strange and wild sounds from Jesse’s cell. He knew precisely what was happening but couldn’t puzzle out why. He heard the matron shriek suddenly and then again and again. Screaming Jesse’s name, muffled slightly.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Grim tried to block out the noises. He pulled the blanket over his face, lying as still as he could, pretending to be dead. He wanted to be in that moment. He wanted nothing more than to be lifted to the heavens for the night. To be ignorant. To not hear the horrible things Jesse said about Ro, Kate, and himself.
Remember who I am and what I stand for, Grim recalled Jesse saying. Armed with that, Grim somehow found peace as he drifted off, nightmarishly lulled by the moans of the witch of Randall’s Island and the wicked lies of a condemned man.
Chapter 17: Rumors
Summary:
“She was pregnant. Yes. She already had her baby—a boy. Marianna told me she overheard Liv’s friends talking about it. The baby’s meant to be a secret. He was given up, of course.”
“That’s daft as a brush,” Julia said, because back then she used puzzling phrases like ‘daft as a brush.’ Trying to learn the same slang Muggs’ spoke with, she freely admitted.
“What’s even more daft as a brush,” Camille said mockingly, “is who the father is.”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
March 1902
Brooklyn, NY
His green eyes, always his green eyes. Boring holes into her skull until Kate’s body dizzied and wilted, bits of her popping like bubbles. Until his green-eyed stare eviscerates her—the horror reflected in shattered flecks of jade and olive, her entire soul turned to stone under the Medusan, heat-seething gaze: something unnatural, something not of this world.
Before she could even scream, scream for someone to save her, she was dropped back to the land of the living with a rude awakening, clutching the bedsheets and feeling as though she might fall off the bed. Her heart fell anyway, nearly crashing into her ribcage as all her limbs seized and loosened in a swift moment of breathless terror.
Rubbing her eyes, Kate shook her head, thinking she’d taken too much laudanum before bed. She swore, hand to God, she’d stop the sedatives one day – not now, of course, maybe in the summer. Each time she closed her eyes, it came to her again: a young man’s face, gaunt and grey, gasping for air. The last time she’d seen it, it’d been Jesse’s. This time, it was Muggs’.
She spent the rest of that morning kneeling under the Brooklyn Bridge, pleading with the murky waters. The evening before, just after supper, she’d spied something terrible in the soapy murk of bathwater, a vision she’d seen before, once she’d hoped she’d soon forget. Jesse and his green eyes, his lifeless, bloody face, his rotting flesh covered in maggots, mumbling something unintelligible to her ears.
“I see you,” Kate said to the river, touching the surface of the cold water with a finger. “You haven’t been forgotten.”
The river demanded a toll from those who sought its favors. It had a particular penchant for blood, flesh, and bone. She possessed meager offerings to present—a handful of coins, a sip of whiskey, and the nostalgic melody of an age-old song. However, she held onto the hope that through her gentle persuasion and kindness, the river might reconsider its demands. Erase those ghostly, ghoulish visions from its reflection once and for all. Return what wasn’t hers to a more rightful owner to restore Jesse’s spirit. Nonna Russo would call it witchcraft, but Kate didn’t care. Something had to be done. Something was better than nothing.
The journal. Jesse gave Kate the one on their last goodbye at the prison—his journal with his precious confessions and secrets. Kate never understood why he’d chosen her as the beneficiary of such a sacred gift. Taking a trolley and then walking as fast as her burning legs could muster, Kate made the trek to Julia’s apartment in record time before the chapel bells called its members to morning service. When she’d wrapped on the door, her heart leaping in her chest, she was met with a startled but composed Julia. She invited Kate inside quickly, partially hiding behind the door in her dressing gown, which she wore in winter.
Kate declined the offer of breakfast Julia had been preparing – fresh coffee and warm croissants with butter and jam. Though Kate had to admit she was stunned to see Julia baking anything. The elegance of the presentation, however, was entirely Julia. She was beautifully laid out on the table, with simple white bowls and a pitcher of coffee and hot milk. Julia looked delighted with herself, as she had when she'd finished a complicated Beethoven on the piano.
“Where’s Muggs?” Kate asked, breathless, staring past Julia at the bedroom, the door open and the room unoccupied.
“He left before dawn, saying he had business to attend to at the Hall. He’s hard at the politicking this month,” Julia replied, not looking Kate’s way and catching the subtle eyebrow raise she gave at the word politicking. “He woke up in a panic, and I thought he feared he’d overslept. He’s been having dreadful night terrors again.”
Kate tasted brimstone in the back of her throat.
“You’ve got the table set as though you’re expecting company,” Kate added, watching Julia bite her lip delicately. “It’s as though you’ve anticipated my being here.”
“If I were as clairvoyant as you wish me to be, Kate, I wouldn’t want for anyone and resign myself to being quite alone,” Julia answered, lips curling into a knowing smile. “Now, what brings you to my door so early, if not a calamity?”
Wiping her nose on the back of her mittens, Kate quickly whirled the pouch around her body and opened the canvas flap, pulling out Jesse’s leather-bound journal. Despite its age, it had remained in mostly impeccable condition, as though it had been purchased that year. “This. I’ve meant to give it to Muggs, and I should’ve given it to him long ago. I just…well, I forgot I had it. It’s been years since…”
“Your diary?” Julia quirked an eyebrow this time. “Why do you want to give him a personal thing like that?”
“It isn’t my diary, it’s Jesse’s. His brother’s.” Kate sniffled again, feeling her chilled face begin to thaw the closer she stood to the roaring hearth. “He gave it to me ten years ago, and I’ve never opened it because it felt so wrong. It wasn’t my place to read such a thing, even if he intended me to. It’s bad luck to poke about in the dead’s most private affairs. But if you could see, he gets it since he’s Jesse’s blood. It’s proper.”
“So, you haven’t read any of it?”
Kate shook her head, biting her thumb between her teeth. “No.”
“Aren’t you curious?” Julia asked, lowering her voice. “What do you suppose he wrote about?”
Pausing, Kate gave a slight shrug and stared at the journal as if it were one of the recovered, stone-etched ten commandments. “That’s for Muggs to discover if he chooses. Promise you won’t read it before he gets it.”
Julia held up her hands in surrender. “Of course, I promise, cross my heart. You know I wouldn’t.” She watched Kate bundle herself up again with a scarf and head for the door. As it opened, the women could hear the indistinct conversations from the hallway as tenants got ready for work. From the street, several buskers plucked away at an up-tempo tune. “Be careful as you go, Kate. The streets will be lively all today.”
Kate was halfway into the hall before Julia’s voice stopped her.
“Are you joining us tonight for a drink? Has Spot any plans for the evening’s festivities?” she asked politely.
“I don’t know,” Kate called back. “I’ve got some errands to take care of today for Mary. And I’ve got Henry’s lessons later.”
“Ah,” Julia said. “Of course. Well, if you could spare a few hours…”
As Kate quit the apartment, she wondered whether her nightmare was a premonition or some side effect from the laudanum cocktail. She’d made herself a “refuge martini” – as Grim had dubbed it – to ensure a good, long night’s shuteye: chloral hydrate, laudanum, and cough medicine – all of which could be purchased at any corner apothecary. Within half an hour of consuming the last two large sips of the foul-tasting concoction, the last of what was in the bottle, Kate had hit the pillow hard. She liked the fast sleep it gave her, even if they came with strange dreams.
But she was out of the goods, and Doc Maltese had more.
To the tune of the street musicians, a few dancers twirled and tapped in the street, scraping shoes against the cobblestone, holding their hats out for spare coins. A man knelt on the sidewalk, outlining a colorful clover in green chalky paint. Men and women strolled by with green ribbons pinned to their clothes. Children waved little green flags as they rode along carts and carriages. Several police officers raised a green banner with a golden-threaded harp in the middle, displaying the battles of the New York Irish Brigade in yellow lettering. Men of the Knights of Columbus poured from the nearby St. Sebastian church wearing green sashes with little white stars.
With her tired eyes, Kate followed a stray dog running across the street, barking after a cart carrying crates of spices. She jumped at the shadow she saw beside hers on the sidewalk, appearing much larger over her shoulder. Whipping around, she nearly collided with Riggs, holding the large basket Mrs. Kina used on market days. It was full of neatly stitched and pattered blankets and quilts, piling up to Riggs’ shoulders almost comically. He spoke first.
“I have never seen such poor folks who live in one place all year round,” he said as if the two were continuing a conversation from moments before. Kate followed his gaze to the motley parade of people dancing and singing in the street. “Just wretched.”
He set the basket onto the back of a nearby cart with similar piles of baskets and barrels loaded with items to be taken to the missions and almshouses about the city. Kate recognized the charity’s logo on the side of the railing, splashed in white chipping paint.
“They’re living worse than half the slaves I ever knew,” he continued.
Kate sighed, eyeing the crowd. “At least they’re no longer shut out.”
“Yes, now they can live like some kind of sick animals, unable to fend for themselves within an indifferent society.”
“Most of ‘em arrived here with nothing,” Kate offered. “So, they’re forced to fight for whatever’s left. But everyone’s equal, at least by law. And I’m carving out a life for myself and—”
“A life?” Riggs scoffed, studying Kate and exhaling sharply. “Here? Life has space, Katherine, sky, open sea, and privacy. Clean air to breathe.”
“The only privacy I had growing up was what Mama wanted to give me,” Kate said bitterly. “Here, it’s whatever I can take. For myself.”
Riggs bristled for a moment and then shook his head, relenting. “I don’t mean to sound so above it,” he said in a lower voice, “but I reckon I don’t share your love for the city. That’s why I keep to my houseboat. River’s less rocky than the road.” He slapped the top of the basket he’d set on the cart, jostling the quilts as he did so. “Leonora has sent me to deliver these in the spirit of good deeds. She’s well-liked by those who run the charity. Your crazed anatomist friend sent his little wifey to help stitch them. He’s been administering to a new hoard of immigrant children, made orphans by the crossing.” Riggs nodded to the large building they stood beside. “In there.”
“Doc?”
Riggs sniffed in response. “Is that what he calls himself?”
“He’s in there now? I haven’t seen him in a good while.”
The Nassau Avenue Mission was a modestly blushing red brick at the corner of Nassau and Newel, with an orphanage adjacent.
“Doc!” She called out to him as he made his way out the door, as if on cue. “Wait up, please.”
Riggs took off down the street toward the waterfront with a tip of his hat.
Doc slowly turned from rifling through his bag of tricks to stare at Kate. His face went from pale to practically glowing with a pleasant surprise in seconds. “What are you doing?”
“Doc, I’ve been meaning to come by. I need more of that stuff…” Kate said at the same time, breathless once more. “The mixture, the laudanum and chloral and, you know, that Refuge special—” She stopped short at the stern look she received from Doc, bringing a finger to his lips. She turned to see two gentlemen staring at them in curiosity.
“Away from here, mm?” Doc suggested, taking her hand softly and escorting her out the door. On the stoop, he ran a hand through his hair, with Kate noticing the tiniest hint of premature grey coming through the black. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you anything more. You shouldn’t have gone through the bottle so quickly.”
“Please, Doc, I just need a little more to get me through this week, and then that’s it. I promise. Just sell me some right now. I know you have the ingredients in that bag. I have money.”
Doc tilted his head, studying her wide green eyes emphatically. “If only you know how many bloody times I’ve heard that promise.” He lowered his gaze. “It was to help you sleep, but not every night. Not all the time. I knew this would happen. Confound it.”
Kate stared at him, frozen stiff for no reason at all. A tiny piece of hair had just caught at the edge of her lower lip. Doc refrained from brushing it back.
“Listen, I’m for home. It’s been a very long night,” Doc said in a rush. Apropos of nothing, as usual. “I’ve been awake for forty-eight hours. If anyone deserves to drink that stuff right now, it’s me. How about you try some non-medicinal ways to fall asleep?”
Kate shook her head, evidently tongueless.
“Well, I’m afraid I’m of no use to you as I am now,” he went on tiredly, wiping at the bags beneath his eyes. “I need to rest a while before tonight. Marianna’s told me there are plans with the rest of the gang. Drinking and black magic and blood sacrifices…I don’t know. It all sounded fascinating. Aren’t you around?”
Sunlight dazzled Kate’s eyes as they regained the street. “I had the most grotesque nightmare,” she said. “Spot came down this morning and found me sitting in the parlor with a pen, paper, and book. I did not read, write, or notate. I only sat before I went to Julia’s. I could hardly speak to him. I’ve been shaken since, like I’m in a daze.”
“Taken often enough, that concoction stops invoking dreams altogether,” Doc admitted.
“Is that what it was like for you in the Refuge, night after night, Doc?” she asked with a painted-over look.
Doc drew a slow breath. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t recall any of the dreams you had there?”
“No.”
Kate pursed her lips. “That’s the thing – I don’t want to dream either. I only want to sleep through the night. And another vial of the stuff would go a long way if it meant I could get just six hours of good, long sleep. No dreams, no nightmares.”
“I’m very sorry, Katherine,” Doc said sympathetically, “but it’s a dangerous thing to drink laudanum every night, especially when it’s been mixed with other substances, you know.”
“But I’ll go mad. I’ll think the world has stopped turning.”
“You’ll find it hasn’t,” Doc suggested, with a voice that took the edge from his comment. “Come on, now, I’ll walk you home. Does your Ms. Mary have any coffee made?”
Kate gave a weak smile. “Always.”
Muggs was a man of lies—none by his telling, but ones spun by others he neither confirmed nor denied. Three enduring rumors concerning Muggs had circulated for as long as anyone could remember. These tales were akin to legends, possessing the power to shape individuals, even if they lacked integrity.
Rumor one: Muggs’ brother was a cold-blooded killer.
Julia thought one needed an explanation the first time she’d heard it. She’d known Muggs just shy of her fifteenth birthday when he’d first hiked up to her and Natalie in Danny Driscoll’s pub and, before long, had begun amusing them with lewd jokes and dirty limericks. The kind that boys of Muggs’ sort found amusing, anyway.
“A pansy who lived in Khartoum took a lesbian up to his room. They argued all night about who had the right to do what, with which, and to whom.”
Natalie had laughed after a beat, perhaps due to her slight intoxication, and implored him to tell another. But Julia looked away, catching Kate’s eye across the room as if urging her to rid the hellion by any means necessary.
Fifteen was a tough enough age for any youth, but being the surviving half of Colm Tracey’s sons was as bad as it got. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he'd been a nobody. People wouldn’t have paid such close attention. A few folks might’ve said, “Say, he’s a frightful-looking cove,” but soon, he’d have been integrated into the adolescent melting pot. It's just another boy dishing out or dodging punches.
Having the last name Tracey made things different. Then folks said, “Ain’t he the spitting image of his pa? Whatever happened to that Russian mother of his? Did you know his brother killed a man? And have you seen his pretty little sister?”
A tale was woven. The one for Muggs was that his brother was electrocuted at Sing Sing.
Julia never followed up to confirm until much later, but she’d heard years ago that Muggs’ brother murdered a man in such a vicious manner that the policeman who was called to the scene resigned after that. His brother had turned to pimping out his mother. Young Mrs. Tracey was a beautiful woman with sparkling blue eyes and skin like alabaster. Muggs’ brother was demented and selfish. One night, he argued with one of Mrs. Tracey’s gentleman callers in their flat. Muggs’ brother was in a cocaine-fueled rage. Suddenly, he became violent and stabbed the man right in the throat. Then he went completely mad. He sliced up the corpse, ripping out the man’s heart and throwing it in the fireplace. That’s when the coppers came around and carted his batshit, murdering self to Sing Sing, where he got the electric chair.
It was no surprise the story spread quickly, like wildfire itself. Thanks to people like Julia, who enjoyed a gory gothic tale. But as cruel as children were, they weren’t devils. They never bothered Muggs about it. It merely branded him with a reputation.
Muggs was the son of Colm Tracey, which meant he was to be feared. His brother was taken away after doing something monstrous, which meant Muggs was monstrous if one was taking heredity into account. The hideous act involved a bloody mess that Muggs was left to clean up literally, making him tainted and surely damned.
So almost immediately, Muggs was known as a crazed and cursed tough who was likely traumatized for life by what he came home to one evening, God knows when. Some felt sorry for him, but many more didn’t want to go near him. Julia had been one of them initially.
Rumor two: Muggs set fire to Danny Driscoll’s pub.
Once again, Julia needed more elaboration for that one. At the juncture of Mercer and Houston, there used to be a hole-in-the-wall pub owned by one Danny Driscoll. In the summer, Julia turned fifteen, and she and Kate would walk there and buy sarsaparilla, licorice, and the morning edition of The World. They’d take it all the way down to the nearby river, sit on the docks, and use licorice to suck the sarsaparilla through while they’d rip illustrations out of the society column from the newspapers and then fold them up into little sailboats that they’d race in the water.
“Hurry Carrie Astor! Hurry, Alva Vanderbilt! Faster, you magnificent silver-spooned hussies!”
Neither Julia nor Kate had managed to say the words magnificent or silver-spooned or hussy, but that had been the general spirit of their cheers. There was nothing else to do. They didn’t work in anything steady. Driscoll wouldn’t serve them alcohol yet. Boys could be fun, of course, but they wanted to watch dogs fight rats or pugilists fight each other, and Kate and Julia were never interested in such blood sports.
It turned out that girls buying the odd news rag, soda water, and bag of candy weren’t enough to keep a pub in business, and by winter of that year, it was shut down. It was a hellhole, to begin with, but once people stopped using the building, rats and street youths took it over, breaking in at night to do what rats and street youths did best, which was usually destroying the place.
Destroying the place led to it being condemned and dangerous, and so it was no shock when some boys set the place on fire. One boy put it more as if the rumors were true. No arrests were made, and no one’s parents found out. Still, the neighborhood kids were convinced that on Christmas Eve, Muggs Tracey had gone with Alexei Morozov and Crazy Aaron Cohen to the abandoned Driscoll’s pub to smash the place up as some declaration of their masculinity. Muggs brought an unexpected party favor: a bottle of beer mixed with kerosine and corked with a bit of cloth torn from an old political banner that once said, Drive Them To The Devil, Brave McClellan!
Unfortunately, unlike McClellan, young Tracey was a sharp executioner but a ghastly tactician, burning old rags with the concoction and hurling them inside before Morozov and Cohen knew what was happening. The three ran out of there with flames at their boots and swore never to speak of it, a treaty that lasted a good 24 hours.
In the end, everything worked out. The landlord collected some money from the city for property damages. The cops never connected the fire to the boys. And someone put up a bakery in its place, and the neighborhood sang its praises. Save for the fact that it was closed on Tuesdays to give the baker a day off. Julia admitted this was still better than the liquor stores closed on Sundays for Jesus.
Rumor three: Muggs had a baby.
This was the least substantiated of all the rumors, but it couldn't be ruled out. By the time he was eighteen, Muggs was a gang-affiliated arsonist with a dead criminal brother. He seemed capable of anything, so he was usually scapegoated whenever something terrible happened.
Grocery store front windows had been smashed to bits? It had to be that Muggs kid.
Money stolen from St. Genevieve Church’s collection box? Confirm Matthew Tracey’s alibi one more time.
A cocaine tin found in a discarded jacket pocket in the lodging house? His name was passed around like a peace pipe.
But even after the cocaine incident at Mary’s, there was the strange case of Liv Blake. Liv had always been a bit wild. Not insane. It's just consistently possessive. During Julia’s eighteenth year, Liv became more possessive of Muggs. Then, one day, she stopped coming around with him, and Julia didn’t see her for a long time. Muggs, either, as he’d been sent to the Refuge.
“A baby!” Camille told her a few weeks later.
“Liv’s pregnant?” Julia asked.
“She was pregnant. Yes. She already had her baby—a boy. Marianna told me she overheard Liv’s friends talking about it. The baby’s meant to be a secret. He was given up, of course.”
“That’s daft as a brush,” Julia said, because back then she used puzzling phrases like ‘daft as a brush.’ Trying to learn the same slang Muggs’ spoke with, she freely admitted.
“What’s even more daft as a brush,” Camille said mockingly, “is who the father is.”
Julia shrugged. There was better chinwag out there than Liz Blake’s salacious affairs.
“What about Muggs?” Camille went on. “Murder-brother Muggs. Pyromaniac Muggs.”
“God,” Julia said. “That’s true. She was his girl. We used to paw at each other in the corner of my bar now and then. It was downright…spoony.” Spoony. Another word she’d picked up from Muggs’ vocabulary.
“There you are,” Camille said. “The devil has an heir.”
“Didn’t realize he was so fertile.”
“Charles once told me it is the girl who has good eggs. I suppose Liv has a whole henhouse.”
“Even so, I can’t say I’m jealous,” Julia said, which wasn’t entirely true. Having a baby also comes with some advantages. Unwanted advances and attention from men seemed to go away when one was holding a baby on her hip.
Liv stopped coming around Julia’s bar, and once out of the Refuge, Muggs became more of a skulking, shadowy figure than ever. It was strange. Julia watched him retreat, becoming more reclusive. He was the same but different in many ways that mattered to Julia. She figured he would bounce back, like always. But to girls like Julia and Camille, he was nothing more than a handful of stories and mystery dressed in patchy hand-me-downs and some weathered boots.
Julia spent some time analyzing him like she would a book. Her final verdict: Muggs was miserable. And scary. And attractive.
That was the old Julia. Now, she was facing someone entirely different. A man she knew well with an array of new, foreign emotions across his face as he sat huddled up on her sofa that late afternoon on St. Patrick’s Day, shakily combing through Jesse’s diary. Emotions Julia had not yet mapped out. That’s how she found him – miserable but no longer scary. She didn’t want to admit that she found his weary pout and furrowed brow attractive. Not when he was reading the words of his electrocuted, half-crazed, fire-breathing, heart-ripping, cold-blooded, murdering older brother. That didn’t seem right.
And neither, Julia also knew, was that description.
Chapter 18: Unveiling Hearts
Summary:
“You don’t look like yourself,” Henry admitted aloud, catching a sidelong glance from his father. “But you sure look like a lady.”
Grim looked down at him in disbelief. “Henry.”
Kate gazed skyward, her eyes earnest and filled with uncertainty. "Well, I'm fixing to make the right choices tonight.”
"That’s a good idea, Katherine,” Mary said, well-pleased.
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
March 1902
Brooklyn, NY
There was going to be a rowdydow, as Tide called it. Folks were gearing up to twirl and jig to the tunes of ragtag musicians while persuading themselves that this was the pinnacle of a somewhat lackluster year.
Maybe they’d even buy into it.
The plan unfolded just like all their secret adventures—hidden away from prying eyes, at least from eyes that Kate didn't care to involve. She was starting to understand that she rarely stumbled upon something if she didn't actively seek it out.
Their chosen hangout was none other than The Banshee, a sprawling pub that held its secrets. Cards' family had an in with the owners, and although it wasn't a glamorous Revolutionary War-era brewery, it had its charm. A crimson-bricked giant nestled on the banks of the North River, it was the perfect spot for a clandestine gathering. With only a handful of drunk regulars and clueless tourists venturing inside, there was plenty of space for their little soirée.
“For all Mr. Flanagan cares, business is business, and he has enough dough in the bank to repair any damages,” Cards told Kate when she asked him what they might do about the mess they’d inevitably leave in their wake. “Besides, it ain’t fancy.”
"I wasn’t planning on doing much tonight," Kate murmured, her heart racing as she looked into his eyes.
“If you come, I’ll fix it so your drinks are free,” Cards said. “If your date is Spot, I’ll ensure his drinks are free. Unless your date is Julia, that is.”
Kate gave a quizzical shake of her head. "I think our dear Jules has chosen the sidelines this time, along with Spot. I’m going on this adventure alone."
That’s the truth, Kate thought. She was not inclined to heed Julia's counsel regarding a slow-down in her pace with relationships. To stop taking off when things soured. Nonetheless, Kate found herself unwittingly adhering to Julia's guidance. She had been thinking about reconnecting with her old friends. Whenever Kate had concealed her emotions, the outcomes had been catastrophic, not only for herself but for those in her vicinity. And now, scarce individuals were remaining in that circle. The time had come for her to unburden herself and confess in the presence of those she’d troubled. She figured this would be a decisive and definitive act, undertaken in excellent evening wear. Whatever repercussions awaited her revelation, Kate held firm in believing she had earned them, no matter what happened.
When the sun bid its farewell, and twilight cast its gentle hue, Kate adorned herself in one of Leah Kessler's simpler gowns – the kind that usually invited unsolicited praise. Such commendations were better welcomed than spending her precious coin on a gaudy monstrosity that would elicit forced compliments concealed behind gritted teeth, like, "How stunning!" An ensemble destined for a solitary evening's use and no more. Borrowing one from Leah's collection seemed both thrifty and genuine. Kate wanted to look put-together, but if she were to be her true self, she wanted to do so while retaining her genuine essence.
“You look lovely,” Mary said, and Kate swayed betwixt her two feet upon the porch of the lodging house like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze. Mary was taking in the sight of Kate the way a mother of a debutante or a bride might. The kind also featured a suited gentleman or at least a gaggle of girls squealing to celebrate their friendship. But that wasn’t the cast tonight.
"I'm just being myself," Kate retorted, her eyes fixated on the pesky vines launching their annual siege on the side of the brick building.
"It's nice to see you…as you," Grim remarked, tousling the blond locks of young Henry, who stood beside him, wearing a grin full of admiration as he cast his gaze toward Kate.
Kate translated Grim’s words: It’s nice you’re not entirely avoiding me right now. And you're not doped up on opium, which was correct.
“You don’t look like yourself,” Henry admitted aloud, catching a sidelong glance from his father. “But you sure look like a lady.”
Grim looked down at him in disbelief. “Henry.”
Kate gazed skyward, her eyes earnest and filled with uncertainty. "Well, I'm fixing to make the right choices tonight.”
"That’s a good idea, Katherine,” Mary said, well-pleased.
“It's a pity Spot won't join you,” Grim added. “Looks like you're stuck with ol’ me.”
Kate resisted rolling her eyes at Grim, who called himself old. That was one way to describe it. “Believe me,” Kate said. “Spot’s not interested in going.”
“Well, he is interested in you,” Mary said. “And why shouldn’t he be?”
Kate had reached her limit when discussing matters of the heart, and it was abundantly clear why. With a warm embrace from both Mary and Henry, she linked arms with Grim and offered some words she hoped were reassuring.
“I love you, you know,” Kate said. “Your lives hold treasure troves of splendid moments ahead. Don’t ever let me ruin it for you.”
Mary's eyes welled with confusion, and Henry's once steadfast smile wavered, but Kate had no intention of waiting to witness the impending questions. With a decisive nod, she tugged on Grim, who obediently took off by her side.
Chapter 19: Revelations
Summary:
“How long have you known?”
“For all of an hour.” Muggs finished his drink, standing. “From a ghost, no less.”
“I knew there would be a day.” Something of a tiny smirk lurked behind Colm’s teeth. “I reckon you take his word.”
“I guess I do,” Muggs realized, raising his brows quizzically. “As strange as it is.”
“Well, what else do you know?”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
March 1902
Brooklyn, NY
The knock that pounded on Julia’s door that cold afternoon was nothing short of abrupt and wholly insistent. A knock indicating the door was locked was an insult to the visitor. The handle was tried several times as Julia watched from the sofa. Her blonde tresses rested against Muggs' chest, splaying like waves of gold, rising and falling with his breaths. She was sideways, her ankles crossed near the other armrest, while Muggs sat upright, with his long legs sprawled out in typical fashion. He, too, looked up and stared at the small entryway, eyeing the top lock chain as it rattled against the impact.
He held his brother’s diary in his left hand, tracing over the grooves in the binding almost soothingly as the knock sounded again. “Maybe he’ll go away.”
Julia tilted her agitated eyes toward him, meeting his likewise lowered gaze. “He never does.” She rose, adjusting her rumpled clothing before walking to the door. “He’s as timely as the angel of death.”
She unlatched the top chain and unlocked the handle with a key. A hand—calloused, with an old silver band on the ring finger—appeared in the doorway, followed by the upper part of a man’s body. Even in the dim lights of the arc lamps, Julia could see the gleam of an elegant pocket watch and soon a set of handsome Black Irish features of Colm Tracey.
Julia paid no attention to Colm’s greeting. “You know my name is on the lease, don’t you?” she asked. “Not your son’s. Must you aggravate my neighbors each time you drop by?”
Julia knew that Muggs and Colm took Mondays to train together. They’d been doing that since Muggs was around 17. If the weather permitted, they’d run amidst the light foot traffic in Central Park, going for long distances at a time, keeping pace. Or across the length of the bridge and then back. Colm had always been competitive, and Muggs told Julia he made sport out of calisthenics, seeing who could do the most push-ups or sit-ups. There were dumbbell weights at the fire station—the occasional casual boxing match between fellow firefighters.
As much as Colm pushed him, sometimes to an exhausting extreme, Muggs did enjoy the regular attention, even if it was temporary. Colm was no easy training companion to keep up with, even at forty-four. Muggs’ father was a mountain of a hook-and-ladder man who didn’t seem to know when to stop, not even if death was at his very door.
“What’s got you so warm on a nice day?” Colm answered, looking over to see his son peering anxiously at him from the sofa. “Matthew, didn’t I tell you to come by the station ‘round noon?”
“What time is it now?” Muggs asked, his voice gravelly, as if he hadn’t been speaking for some time.
Colm raised an eyebrow, looking from Muggs to Julia around the meticulous apartment. “Half-past. I’m tired of waiting.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not all that up for it today,” Muggs said, sliding the diary subtly between the cushions. “Ain’t got the stomach.”
Something flashed across Colm’s face. He seemed to be staring past Muggs, out the window into the afternoon sky, casting a cool, silver glow over the cobblestone streets. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a rough, calloused hand, a testament to years of hard work and dedication.
“Matthew,” Colm bellowed again, his booming voice carrying through the room though he hadn’t done much to raise it. He pulled a small snuffbox out of his vest and frowned in his handsome way. “Get your sorry bones up. Don’t make me lose control of myself in front of your lady here.”
Muggs sighed, rolling his eyes at the absurd thought of his dad whipping him in front of Julia. He hadn’t felt the sting of Colm’s belt since he was thirteen. “Not today, Dad.”
Colm’s impatience grew as he heard his son’s reluctance. He stomped his heavy boots toward the sofa, fiery determination fueling his frustration.
“What’s come over you, boy?” Colm growled, glaring carefully at Muggs, who looked less than enthusiastic. Muggs was pale as a sheet, with a glazed look in his eyes. “You used to like spendin’ time with your old man on Mondays. And by used to, I mean last week.”
Muggs rose to his feet, keeping his green eyes on the ground, shoulders slumping slightly. “I did—I do. It’s just...” He could feel both Julia and his father staring at him. “I’ve got other things on my mind right now. Today ain’t good for trainin’.”
“Why’s that?” Colm’s lips curled into something of a smug grin. “You ain’t goin’ soft on me, are you? Now that you’ve got a bit of tail at your disposal—”
“Jesus Christ, for the last time, he doesn’t wanna go!”
Muggs looked like he was trapped in a nightmare. Colm looked at her. “Miss Hawthorne?”
Julia caught her breath. “Yes?”
“Don’t ever speak for my son again.”
“Dad, she ain’t speaking for me. She’s the only one listening to me. I told you that I ain’t feeling up to—”
“Just come for an hour.”
“—runnin’ across the bridge until I can’t feel my lungs anymore.”
“You’ll feel better once you leave this stuffy room.” He took a step toward his son. “You’ve been spending far too much time here anyway. Instead of doing your job.”
Muggs rolled his eyes, shooting his father a quick, angry scowl. “I attended your party meeting this morning, didn’t I? I put on a good show, securing votes from dead rabbits, firedogs, and Bowery boys. Irish, Germans, Italians, Yids, and natives. Convicts, newspaper journalists, leeches, panderers, and gangsters. I spoke to them all. I was a good whore for your Tammany fuckin’ Hall today, so don’t stand here and tell me otherwise—get your hands off me!” He shoved Colm away when he reached out to steady his son’s shoulders.
“You have to decide,” Colm began, barely able to hide his frustration, giving Julia a side glance. "Do you want to be the kind of real man your brother was, or are you just playing a boy’s game to say fuck you to the Hall?”
“Fuck you.”
Colm scoffed, momentarily looking up at the ceiling as if trying to conceal a laugh. “That’s what I thought…hold on, boy.” His eyes snapped back to Muggs, his look of amusement now replaced with one of surprise. “Are you saying, ‘fuck you’ to the Hall or me?”
Julia glanced at them. “I, too, am unsure of where that was directed.”
Julia harbored no warmth, goodwill, or anything but disdain for Tammany Hall and its political party. They operated as a corrupt propaganda machine, attempting to manipulate their supporters into feeling morally superior for supporting an organization no different from the evil enterprises enriching themselves. However, it couldn't be denied that they also provided sustenance to impoverished immigrants with nowhere else to go, offered employment to numerous skilled workers, and exchanged labor for necessities like nourishing meals and shelter from the elements. Among those benefiting were men like Muggs and Jesse.
Colm tilted his head, trying to meet Muggs’ eyes, and for a moment, from where Julia stood, it was almost tender. The way a sliver of worry formed in a line across Colm’s forehead, his lips parting, fingers twitching at his sides.
Muggs reached down and pulled out the book from between the cushions, holding it with both hands, averting his gaze from his father. “This is Jesse’s diary,” he said, barely audible.
Colm studied it. “What?”
“This is Jesse’s diary. He’s kept it since he was twelve,” Muggs continued. “I never knew about it…until now.”
Carefully, Colm took in the sight of it, his burly arms folded across his chest.
Julia looked frightened by this revelation. Waxen in the jaundiced light, back to the wall, teeth nearly bared.
“Jesse didn’t keep no diary,” Colm said finally. “What did he have to write about?”
After a beat, Muggs gave a small, peculiar smile. “Alright, forget it.” He moved past Colm, but the older man stopped him with another hand on his shoulder, still eyeing the book. Almost reverently.
Without needing to ask, Muggs knew what his father was thinking. “I’ve read a great deal.”
Colm shook his head. “I need a drink,” he said in his flat, sober baritone. He sat back in Julia’s armchair near the fireplace, chiseled face well-defined from the lines of his straight nose to his high cheekbones. He was looking neither at the diary nor out the window this time.
“Matthew,” he grunted. “Answer honestly. Where did you get it?”
“I brought it home.” Removing her shawl and setting it on the table, Julia hesitated. “An old friend of Jesse’s tracked Matthew down. While he was busy this morning at the meeting, the friend came here and gave me the diary to give to Matthew.”
“An old friend of Jesse’s.” Colm sounded incredulous. “And who might that be?”
Julia poured neat golden whiskey into three tumblers. “Did Jesse not have many friends?”
“He had enough.” The elder Tracey nodded to the diary. “But why don’t you tell me which friend it was first, so I don’t spend any more time trying to guess at it.”
Muggs opened the old journal without a word, turning to a page as if by memory, tapping it. “Reverend Coster, not to be trusted. He’s a rapist and a butcher who’s deceived ten of the smaller girls into accompanying him to Bible study after schoolhouse hours. And they were far from the first. God helped us. Last night, he saw fit to break into Ward 3 and have his way. A little miss, roughly eight, escaped. Raffi was on hand to assist, of course, along with Krause.”
Colm’s expression was unlike anything Julia had ever seen on him. “Krause?”
Muggs ignored him, flipping through a few more pages and continuing to read. “I think I concussed Coster, but that’s hardly a fight. The man is a brute.”
Colm scowled even more deeply than his perennial frown.
“So, some friend of Jesse’s gave you his diary, and you decided to read it to me personally.”
“Not exactly.”
“And for some reason that is inexplicable to me when discussing so delicate a subject as your dead brother, you’re choosing passages from his time in the Refuge.”
Muggs took a sip of whiskey. For bravery, not flavor. It seared his empty stomach nicely. “Jesse’s friend in the Refuge…he protected her when she ran away from a rapist, someone who worked in that vile place. Jesse…never took kindly to that behavior, not toward young girls.”
“No.” Colm pressed at his temples, growing pale. “No, he didn’t.”
“She’s my sister,” Muggs continued to read, eyes following the lines on the page. “I see it now. She’s little Katerina Russo, all-grown. The baby I wasn’t to speak of. Cian told me so. The baby that made Ma cry when she found out.”
Colm raised an eyebrow though his entire body had gone stiff. Yet he made no effort to reach for the book. “It doesn’t say that. You’re lying—”
“It’s a tired compliment, I know,” Muggs recited Jesse’s words from memory, closing the diary as he glared at Colm, “but she does have my father's eyes.”
Muggs waited for denial. He got another sip of whiskey. The room listened to itself breathe. Then the sound came: Colm’s fist cracked the chair arm. Julia flinched and whiskey quivered in the glass like a held note.
“Mr. Tracey?” she said.
Colm swallowed. “I’m sorry, Miss Hawthorne.” He tossed back the whiskey like it was medicine, poured another, didn’t drink it. The muscle in his jaw worked and worked. “What time is it.”
"Nearly three," Julia said.
“Too long a day already, and I’m sober for it.” He stared at the book, not reaching, not refusing. “Has Katherine read it.”
“That’s your concern?” Muggs barked. “Now?”
Julia bit her lip. “She brought it. She hasn't read."
They finished their drinks. Colm poured more whiskey into their glasses. He sighed and set the glass down too carefully, as if the table might buck. Nevertheless, Muggs' father remained as composed as a rock, a trait that served him well in managing the unruly characters of his fire brigade.
Colm nodded once, grim as a prayer. The watch chain flashed when he shifted. It was the only bright thing about him. “I always knew there’d be a day,” he said. “Seems Jesse chose it.”
“I’m not after stories,” Muggs said, closing the book over his thumb. “I’m after the truth.”
“No,” Colm answered, steady as an engine. “You’re after an apology. Decide which one.”
Willing himself not to bare his teeth, Muggs contemplated his father. Daring that brick wall of a man to say, I did what was best at the time for our family, and you’ll never understand, or, worse still, I wish I’d left your mother and you three sniveling brats to marry Effie.
"If you're contemplating a response, I have all day," Colm remarked, his eyes reflecting a mix of impatience and unease. "Feel free to take your time."
“Never mind the apology,” Muggs answered, jaw tight. “You’d rather worry about more important things. Like the Hall.”
“Oh, that’s on my list, to be sure.” Colm sighed. “Do me a favor and steer clear of Katherine Moore until I’ve had the chance to speak with her—because if she’s anything like you, she’ll enjoy disproportionately crushing my attempts at amends. I’m asking Miss Hawthorne the same.” He turned to Muggs with a meaningful glare. “Keep her smart about the matter however you need to.”
A frown crooked Muggs’ lips. “You told Julia she doesn’t speak for me,” he said, placing a hand atop hers. “Well, I don’t speak for her either.”
Colm shrugged. “Then neither of you speak, Matthew. I’ll tell Katherine what I need to if only to spare you the haunting of Jesse’s ghost.”
“Do you honestly believe it’s Matthew he’ll haunt?”
Colm chose not to respond to Julia and refocused on his whiskey glass. Looking back on it, Muggs couldn't blame him in the slightest.
March 1902
Manhattan, New York
Lion Valentino turned left onto Cherry Street, following its curve as it transitioned into Pearl. The maritime supply shops gradually disappeared, along with the spicy scent of vinegar wafting from the bustling waterfront. His destination lay a few blocks east, on the corner of Pearl and Elm: Mr. and Mrs. Moore's drugstore. This establishment had no visible sign from the street except for a camphor lantern casting a soft glow that occasionally released fine black soot particles onto its iron stand.
Lion blinked as he gazed upon the brick exterior and the expansive display windows. With a crooked little laugh, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. The interior was a wonderfully eccentric blend of two worlds.
It resembled a laboratory on one side, featuring a table covered in cobalt-glass jars, small burners, and apothecary bottles tightly sealed with wax. These containers held an assortment of remedies, tonics, and medicinal herbs. Nearby, cork-stopped vessels contained tinctures, elixirs, and powders. On the other side, it resembled a library, with shelves full of gilded medical texts. The air carried a warm scent of aging paper beneath the faintly sterile atmosphere.
The lofty ceilings boasted ornate moldings while gas lamps dangled from the rafters, casting a dim, flickering light. The walls were decorated with medical posters and illustrations depicting human anatomy and diagrams of organs and skeletal structures. Scales were on display and used for weighing ingredients. A large, ornate mirror with a wooden frame hung over the counter for a touch of elegance.
Behind the counter were rows of tools and equipment. Mortar and pestle sets made from marble and brass used for compounding medicines, sitting beside granulated glass cylinders and beakers, arranged for precise measurements. The air was filled with the distinct scents of herbs, spices, and medicinal compounds.
Doc would go mad with excitement in here, Lion thought fleetingly. Then, the identical bottles of chloral hydrate on one shelf caught his eye, and Lion's entranced gaze blackened momentarily to something resembling both disgust and loathing. He tore his eyes away quickly.
Mrs. Effie Moore sat erect behind her cash register, wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved blouse and a flowing skirt with an apron. Her luscious dark brown hair, nearly hinting at auburn in the gaslight, was swept in a stylish updo with several decorative pins, her fair face flawless, adorned with a natural rosy flush on her cheeks, and tongue thrust between her teeth in concentration. She was scribbling away in a massive ledger book for recording transactions, scowling in hearty choler at the footsteps. The lilac light of sunset christened an illustrated human heart before her, arteries curving away from it like serpents, looking wholly as ominous as that apparatus is.
“Even if my buffoon of a husband forgot to lock the door, I haven’t the slightest intention of seeing any customers after hours.”
“I’m not here for a prescription,” Lion said, amused.
Effie nearly sprang out of her chair when she caught sight of the slim figure in the mirror, dropping her pen, her hand flying to her chest. “Who in the blazes are you?” the woman demanded like a knife sharpened on a stone. She reached up to clasp the simple strand of beads around her graceful neck.
She was right to be peevish. Lion hadn’t introduced himself, nor had he ever entered her store. But he instantly knew that he had just encountered Kate’s mother.
Effie’s spine prickled, and she craned her neck to gaze up at the young man in his late teens to early twenties. There was something overly mature in his expression, a hardness from having to fend for himself for so long and an anger at life that simmered beneath the surface.
“I’m Lorenzo Valentino.” Lion fixed his attention upon Effie, cocking his head toward her. His lips curled into a gloomy smile, telling Effie he enjoyed talking to strange women. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Silence. Her well-manicured hand picked up the pen and continued scribbling, ever scribbling, actions rote and mechanical, soft brown eyes pinned to the words on the page. A golden evening glow yet permeated through the window nearest her. Tender and innocent-seeming.
Unlike this woman.
Not that she seemed ignoble. The mere fact of Effie being there meant she’d chosen early on not to be somewhere else, as Kate had likewise decided. She wasn’t smothered in chalky powder and crimson rouge, walking arm-in-arm with Cards’ ma through the docksides and boulevards, calling out propositions in stark detail. She wasn’t covered in spangles everywhere save for her bare breasts, leaning out of a window in the Bowery, like River’s mother. Neither was she poured like cream into sheaths of satin with lace overlay like Marquette’s maman, waiting to be chosen from a line in a brothel resembling a mansion.
She was bookkeeping. It was as if bookkeeping was breathing, and in a way, it was. But life had been crueler to her than words could convey. Her lips were chapped, her expression numb, fingers steady as the clock on the wall above her.
“You’re not one of those hopfiends, are you?” Effie sniffed with a frown. Her lips, tinted with a subtle, natural hue, had a captivating fullness.
She didn’t look up. There was something almost threateningly alive about her despite her smallness. It was as if she dared the universe to put her out of her misery, and the universe wasn’t proving up to the task. Her hair was a pretty doe-brown, her curls barely controlled by the long pins, her face fresh enough to have been born long after the war between the states. But the bones beneath her were strong, rather timeless, even vaguely familiar as if Lion had seen her likeness once in a classical painting or a portrait of a beautiful debutante. Her expressive eyes remained a shocking dark color, framed by long, thick eyelashes, sparkling with intelligence and coldness. Her eyebrows were finely arched, complementing her delicate features.
She was terrifying.
“I’m a friend of Katherine’s,” Lion answered readily. “She didn’t tell me she had a pretty sister working in her folks’ shop. What do they call you, young miss?”
Effie dropped her pen into her lap and howled with laughter.
Lion could immediately see why Lash Kina had once described her as mad. The laugh was so unhinged that Lion took half a step back.
Tears formed, and Effie subsided into gusty chuckles. “What wayward nursery did you come from?”
After that, the room turned rather deafening. She abandoned her task with the book and straightened her shoulders.
“Won’t your mother be wondering where you’ve wandered off to? Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Effie continued, nodding her head. “And more to the point, why should I feel any better about you staring at me than about Katherine sending you here to vex me.”
“I haven’t got a mother, and Katherine didn’t send me here,” Lion replied evenly. “I came to see you.”
“Is that so?” Effie asked, her tone strict. Then, she drew out a longish carving knife. “If you don’t tell me what your business is here, I’ll make your face look like cobblestone. Now, what do you want?”
Lash was right to be frightened of her, Lion realized, flexing his hand. “What do I want?” Lion lifted an eyebrow and then took another step. When his grin inched higher, Effie gripped the knife tighter. “I was wondering if I might keep you company a while, just until you finished with the ledger there,” Lion said.
The tongue appeared again, thrusting between Effie’s lips as if she were a snake. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I don’t mind, signorina,” Lion purred, his voice dripping with honeyed words as he strolled closer to her. “A radiant thing like yourself shouldn’t be alone on a Monday night. I came to see if you're as wild a dame as they say."
Effie’s eyes rolled, though to her dismay, she felt the smallest blush creep onto her cheeks. She quickly composed herself. “Enough with your talk, young man. If there’s nothing else, you need to leave.”
Lion leaned over the counter, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “I can’t resist a woman who knows what she wants. And what I want, my dear, is you.” He licked his lips, nodding to her body in the most forward way Effie had seen in a while. “What say you?”
“I have no interest in indolent young boys.”
Lion flashed another gleaming shark-tooth smirk, making women drop their dresses to the hardwood. “I ain’t no boy. I know how to make myself useful.” His hooded eyes glimmered wickedly, and he licked his hand, smoothing his thick, dark hair. “I’ve been told I’m a good fuck.”
The same laugh erupted, slicing through the stench of herbs and elixirs. Lion tilted his head, furrowing his brow slightly confused, though his expression remained confident. Nell Anderson would practically jump his bones if he’d spoken to her like that.
But Effie was far different. She looked like she wanted to slap him for his forwardness.
“You’ve been told that, have you? I didn’t realize you were one of those molly-house prostitutes.” Her words were deadly, her expression severe, and she warmed at the sight of Lion’s lost smile. She pointedly moved away from him, her hands firmly on the counter. “You’re wasting your time,” she hissed. “I am a married woman.”
Lion’s playful demeanor shifted slightly, and a hint of frustration flashed across his face. He’d never had to work this hard in his life. “You wound me, Bella. Is it wrong to seek friendship with someone as captivating as you, unavailable as you are?”
Effie leaned in suddenly, her voice laced with a sharp edge. “Christ, get out of my sight, or I’ll scream for my husband.” Without giving him a chance to think about it, Effie shouted out for Edward. Then again. It was like she'd taken on another, far darker personality in a matter of seconds.
His eyes widened at that, and he straightened, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright, I’m going!” Lion insisted, backing away from the counter.
Effie launched a string of Italian curses, beginning to throw objects off the counter his way in a rage.
"What are you doing?" Lion blocked a fistful of pens that sailed through the air and bounced off his raised arms. Effie launched an empty tin cup that held the pens next, which Lion caught at the last second. "Hey, not at the face! I need this face!"
"Edward!" Effie yelled again, gripping her knife and pointing it toward Lion to keep her distance. "Send for the police!"
“Madonna Santa, Kate was right about you,” Lion spat, dodging the empty canisters and old rags she continued to throw. “You’re a frigid, unfeeling bitch.”
“What? How dare you!” Effie screamed, grabbing a hefty paperweight from a drawer and hurling it at the tall young man. The weight hit its mark perfectly, colliding just below Lion’s right eye, immediately causing blurred vision. “Get out! If you come around here again, I swear, I will turn your hide into soap!”
“What the fuck, lady!” Lion shouted, clutching at the affected eye, unthinkingly stumbling out of the shop, barely making it out the door before Edward finally jostled down the stairs.
“Hey!” Edward ran after the boy, grabbing a cane from by the door and giving chase. “Get back here, you little shit! Stop!”
Lion took off, cursing ever so slightly to himself as the pain in his eye vibrated. Running through the shadowy-hued March evening, leaving Edward far behind, he headed toward Nell Anderson’s apartment on Chatham Street.
Chapter 20: Kabo Corsets
Summary:
“It’s Paddy’s Day! Everyone’s asking after you, wondering why you ain’t there!”
“I’ll call a roundsman if you don’t leave—”
“All the cops are in the bars!” Cohen half-sang to the tune of some unfamiliar ditty, and Spot could hear how intoxicated he was on that note.
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
March 1902
Brooklyn, NY
The rain had mellowed into a light shower when Spot was roused from a tap tapping his window.
“Spot! Spot!” A faint whisper from somewhere roused him from his bed where he lay with little Henry, a copy of Treasure Island held between them both. “Get up!”
Spot blinked awake. Next to him, Henry did the same. His eyes blurred as they adjusted to the dim, flickering gas lamp atop his writing desk. They must have fallen asleep while Spot was reading to the child, lulled by the nursery stories, colorful illustrations, and the smell of wool soap on Henry’s freshly washed mop of blond hair.
Then, Spot remembered he was supposed to read a book on the alphabet to Henry, who needed more help with his letter writing. Mary had lent them the alphabet primer from the vast library she kept, each shelf dedicated to its genre in meticulous order. Spot was fond of the little book, as it was the same one his sister Emily had used to instruct him. Inside, the pictures were colorful, and the alphabet was told in jingling rhyme with lines like B, which is for baby, so pink and white, bathed in a basin each morning and night. L is for laces, the richest and best, well stitched by my mother, and is a critical test.
Spot had the primer memorized, but Henry was far less interested in a grammar story that evening and more inclined to read the latest chapter from the adventure book. Spot had been reading the story to Henry for two weeks, getting through a chapter almost every night. Henry found the copy amongst Spot’s things a month ago, alongside a simple portrait of a pale young woman with dark brown locks and an alluring air, her chin in her hand, looking off with wide-set green eyes—just Kate, caught in a watercolor study by none other than Marquette.
He’d given the portrait to Kate, and when Spot discovered it amongst her things, he asked if he could keep it. She’d looked so beautiful, and the way Marquette had captured her made the whole sketch look ethereal.
***
“You like my teacher, Miss Katherine,” Henry had proclaimed rather forebodingly as he ran his fingers over the painting. “I suppose you like kissing her, huh?”
“I…actually—”
Looking at the sketch, Spot realized that the intentions of keeping a woman’s portrait amongst his prized possessions were apparent to this seven-year-old. It didn’t help Spot’s confusion much. Meanwhile, Henry’s somber expression transformed into one of pleasant compliance, smoothly concealing the traces of his earlier error.
“Or maybe not? My daddy doesn’t like kissing.”
“Never mind all that.”
“Is she your doxy?”
The word landed like a thrown tack. Spot blinked once slow, twice. "No. Katherine is...very special to me."
***
“Someone’s out there,” Henry said, his wide blue eyes suddenly alert and frightened.
Spot sat up and peered toward the attic window, realizing he’d dozed off with one of the gas lamps left on at his writing desk. Two figures took shape on the fire escape, pressed up against the frosted window like ghosts. There was no use in feigning sleep now. The statistics had seen him awaken and were thrilled by this venture.
“Get up!” The voice beckoned again. Spot recognized it in an instant as Crazy Cohen’s. “We’ll meet you around the front!”
“Cohen don’t—” Spot started to say, but the two figures had already left the window excitedly.
Hurrying out of bed, Spot pulled on his vest and fetched his black frock coat from the chair.
“Find Mary,” Spot told Henry, “I’m gonna kill them…”
Throwing open the attic door, Spot vaulted down the stairs and tore through the hall, anxious to quell his comrades’ enthusiasm before they woke up the entire lodging house. To his annoyance, Cohen was now lightly knocking on the front door.
“Go away, Cohen!” Spot hissed through the keyhole.
“You need to come out with us—”
“No, I don’t!”
“It’s Paddy’s Day! Everyone’s asking after you, wondering why you ain’t there!”
“I’ll call a roundsman if you don’t leave—”
“All the cops are in the bars!” Cohen half-sang to the tune of some unfamiliar ditty, and Spot could hear how intoxicated he was on that note.
“Katherine’s in trouble!”
The ribs under Spot’s vest went ice cold. Tumblers turned. He hauled the door open.
“What’s happened to her?”
“She ain't in trouble. But the door opened.” Muggs' tone dripped with sarcasm, smoothly coating his words. Instantly, he cocked the wolfish grin, revealing a set of remarkably flawless teeth with genuine dazzle.
Spot stared. Cohen slapped a damp Ladies' Home Journal into his hand. "Found it on your stoop. Folded to the Kabo ad. Leah said she wanted it. Give it to the right lady."
“Would you just come inside already,” Spot muttered as he opened the door wider.
He pivoted and approached the kitchen, aware of two footsteps trailing behind him. One set was light and confident, carrying a subtle Irish swagger. The other was determined and resonant, created by quarter-ton German boots.
The spray and rain intertwined in the brilliant glow beneath the streetlights for five minutes. During this time, Spot didn't ponder whether Kate, out there in Manhattan, had stumbled upon any trouble. It was liberating, almost like the sensation of being wiped clean from existence.
Spot handed Muggs and Cohen cups of steaming hot cocoa, then sat across from them at the kitchen table. He sighed, running his hand through his hair.
Cohen leaned forward and looked at him expectantly. “Well?”
Spot stared back, unblinking. “Well, what?”
He didn’t mind them. He was fiddling with his fingertips over the blue wrapper and yellow label of the Walter Baker & Co. hot chocolate package.
“You have to tell us.”
“Tell you what?” Spot asked, his impatience quite evident by then.
“Does Katherine read the Ladies’ Home Journal?” Cohen asked casually, picking an errant piece of tobacco off his tongue. He turned to Muggs. “Is that why she likes Kabo corsets? She’s wearing one tonight without brass eyelets—"
Spot shifted, leveling a firmer stare at him. “Mary reads it. And how do you know what kind of corset Katherine is wearing tonight?”
The notion gouged a mighty chunk from his belly, but he kept his face neutral.
“Dry up, Spot. Leah told me she lent her one,” Cohen continued as if getting back to a topic they’d accidentally left behind. “Anyway, she’s been asking for you all night and so have about a dozen others. How come you’re in bed so early?”
“I’ve worked in the morning,” Spot answered.
“So have we. And how does being the only sixty-year-old cove in the gang feel?” Muggs mocked him more quietly. “You’re making Grim look his age for once.”
Spot wanted Kate Moore like he wanted to breathe air and then, in the same heartbeat, hoped she’d have a wonderful time without him hovering. Kate could have her say.
“I hate you,” Spot said with meticulous clarity to Muggs.
That provided solace akin to the harsh burn of low-quality whiskey scalding Spot’s throat—bitter and all too familiar.
“Then accept or decline the damn invitation, so Cohen and I can get back to the party,” he suggested.
Muggs dragged his fingers through his inky hair, striding over to the counter to pour himself a measure of rum, pushing aside the package of quaker oats and the little bowl and spoon set that Mary used for her breakfast. She’d been setting it up the night before since Spot was a child. Muggs remained utterly calm, a quality that only served to amplify Spot's frustration. Spot couldn't help but wish Muggs would show concern about Spot's opinion instead of remaining infuriatingly indifferent.
“The party Katherine and Grim are at?” Spot asked.
“The same,” Cohen answered. “At the Banshee pub. In Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Hell’s Kitchen? That’s Duster territory,” Spot pointed out. “Bit dangerous, ain’t it?”
“So are Kabo corsets.” Muggs drained his spirits and then adjusted his braces with a second snap of impatience. As he went for his older brother’s shabbily patched black coat, his green eyes raked over Spot. “You have less than ten minutes to decide. Hansoms are a nightmare to flag down after eleven.”
He arched his eyebrows as Spot tried to muster a bold expression. However, the effort strained his weary eyes, prompting Spot to ease back into the chair, letting go of his attempt at defiance.
“I’ll give you ten cents for your first couple rounds, plus I owe you two dollars from last Friday’s round of faro,” Cohen threw in, fishing through his inner coat pocket for the money and then clunking it down, sliding the loot to Spot.
“Are you bribing me?” Spot puzzled. “That’s pathetic, Cohen.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“No,” Spot agreed. “You’ve established that.”
“Regardless, you’re missing out. Plenty of good company to be had for the likes of us,” he added with more than a touch of brag.
“What does that mean?” Spot asked and regretted the query immediately.
“We’ve been…” Muggs exchanged a fleeting smile with Cohen that would have looked cold on an undertaker and then set his untouched cup of hot cocoa in the large sink, “popular.”
Spot cocked an accusatory eyebrow at Muggs. “We?”
Muggs seemed to read Spot’s mind as soon as the words left his mouth.
“Don’t worry, Julia sprayed Muggs with her perfume, so all know he’s hers,” Cohen said with a coarse laugh.
Spot nodded. “Yeah, I thought I smelled rosewater.”
Cohen stood, tugging down his wrinkled vest and pressing his coat buttons. “What say you, Conlon? Are you coming?”
“I’d rather follow you both into the ninth circle of hell than come along to another one of your all-night, hedonistic, debauched orgies—”
***
“This is blatantly ludicrous,” Spot said as Cohen swapped his vest for one sprayed with blue strawflowers.
Spot watched as Cohen fussed around him, salvaging items from a trunk filled with abandoned attire, permeated with the scent of Pearline and Creolin-Pearson. Cohen also exchanged Spot's frock coat for a billowing, shiny black one. Soon, Spot would fully resemble a Tammany rabbit, but Spot chose not to dwell on this transformation.
“Who’s clothes were these?” Spot asked.
“Who’s d’ya think, you tit? No Name’s. Say, this ain’t what I’d pictured the attic to look like from the stories. It’s rather nice and homey," Cohen said, folding the collar over the lapels. A shock-blue bow tie landed in Spot’s palm.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“If you think you’ll be let into a Hudson Duster joint without wearing their colors, I have a bridge to sell you. Of course, if you were the political sort—or a burny-blower—you needn’t bother with the costume,” Cohen noted. “But you aren’t either of those things, are you? Put on the tie, you crosspatch. You want in a Duster party, you wear Duster blue. House rule."
Sighing, Spot snatched Cohen's bow tie.
“I have no affiliations."
Cohen didn't bother to answer. He continued rummaging through the trunk, packed with clothes explicitly designed to torment Spot.
“How am I meant to get into a Hudson Duster party when I’m not a gang member?” Spot asked next.
“That’s no difficulty, Conlon,” Cohen reassured, examining a blue-and-white-striped pocket square before neatly tucking it into Spot's breast pocket. “The cover fee is manageable. Plus, your godfather Cian will likely wave it in your case. Fear not.”
Spot found solace in resting his face on his palm, a gesture that had become a reassuring habit. He looked deeply bothered, his emotions stretching far beyond mere grievance.
“Where’s Alexei?” Spot questioned through his hand, as the Russian was seldom more than 12 feet from Muggs.
“He proposed to Elena,” Cohen replied, winking.
“Marriage?” Spot questioned in quiet shock.
“You’re familiar?” Cohen muttered halfheartedly. “I didn’t realize we did that sort of thing anymore.”
“Well?”
“Yes, marriage,” Cohen continued. “If Elena doesn’t change her mind within ten seconds of being escorted to the bar, there’s a weight off me.”
“Is not marriage an open question when it is alleged, from the beginning of the world, that such as are in the institution wish to get out, and such as are out wish to get in,” Spot muttered, tucking his hands under his arms.
“What?”
“Nothing. Best of luck to Alexei. He deserves a mother.”
“Don’t you mean a wife?” Cohen asked. Cautiously, he advanced toward Spot and placed a grand silk top hat on Spot’s head.
Even the most stubborn men had their thresholds, after all.
“No." Spot traded it for his flat cap.
“But you—”
“No. I keep my own.”
Cohen looked at Spot. A shrug passed along his shoulders like lightning over the sky.
“Fine,” Cohen sighed, then grinned. “Notorious hat stays.”
“Right, then we’ll be off.” Spot started for the attic door. “But I should let Mary know first. Make sure Henry found her. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“Better let me go out this way,” Cohen said, climbing out of the frosted attic window and onto the fire escape. “I’ll see if I can hail us down a hansom.”
Spot felt a mix of uncomfortable prickly sensations when he discovered Mary's quarters vacant. However, as he descended the steps, that coiled-up feeling dissipated. The kitchen was orange peel and rum and warm laundry steam. Mary and Muggs sat with Reymer's candy, cards, and a pitcher between them. Mary was pink to the hairline over a winning hand. Spot could see it clearly—an upside-down whole house.
"No debate is even worth pursuing," she declared, clapping her hands together in victory. "Remind me, please, dear. What's the term for a man who consistently loses at every card game?"
"A sap," Muggs replied. "And honored to lose to a fair-minded Republican like yourself, although not as honored as I am to learn you in slang. Thomas Conlon! You almost resemble a flash gentleman."
“Thank you, I guess,” Spot said, deciding any compliment out of Muggs’ mouth was not to be trusted. “I’m sorry we woke you, Mary.”
“Fiddlesticks,” Mary said. “After all, I hoped you’d change your mind and go.” She added an ounce of rum to Muggs' glass and delicately savored her sip, displaying an air of sophistication.
“I need to ask Henry something.”
“He’s up there.” Mary nodded to the stairs. “In the schoolroom.”
Henry had curled up on the big swivel chair at the front. It was the same one Spot had been sitting in, reading, when Muggs stormed in to scream at him during the cocaine fiasco all those years ago.
The neatly stitched curtains were pulled back from the window. As Spot crept in, Henry’s little square chin tilted keenly up in his direction.
“You’re going to the party,” he said. “I knew you would be. Muggs told me you could never pass up free drinks and pretty molls.”
“I’m sure he did. Henry, can I ask you something?”
Henry eagerly straightened, folding his legs in a comfortable cross-legged position.
"Remember when you mentioned my fondness for the girl in Marquette's drawing?" Spot inquired gently. "You looked uneasy then. What were you trying to say? You're close to Katherine Moore, and she's your teacher and your father's friend. She was your mother's friend before anyone else."
“Yes,” Henry whispered.
Henry pondered the question for an extended period, long enough for Spot to perceive that Henry presumed Spot wouldn't appreciate his response. Despite this, Spot patiently waited for Henry to answer as the question weighed heavily on his mind.
“Well, at first, I thought she was doing…the same thing as my mama, but you weren’t giving her any money, and my mama got money, so when you had her picture, I thought…” Henry trailed off, puzzling worriedly. “I thought she must have been your doxy if you had her picture. But I still don’t get it. Who’d ever want to…for….and if she had money of her own, why—”
“No, listen,” Spot said as Henry grew anxious. “Thank you for explaining it to me. It isn’t straightforward, but I do want you to know…Katherine means the world to me. And what’s more, she wished your mother’s life had been better. You know?”
“I know,” Henry murmured, nodding. “Everyone else talks about my mama. Just not my daddy. But if you don’t think I should ask Miss Katherine about her because it will make her sad, I won’t anymore.”
“No, I think you should ask.” Spot squeezed Henry’s shoulder reassuringly. “Your father has enough memories of his own, and you don’t have any. No one is ever going to keep you from knowing her again.” Pausing in the doorway, Spot turned around and added meaningfully, “And she wasn’t your father’s doxy, Henry. Just so we’re clear.”
“I know that now,” Henry said, patiently resting his arms on the large desk, worried lines already settling into tracks on his youthful face. “Muggs told me that, too.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Mama changed after she met my daddy. He said she was a girl again.”
“Does Muggs often talk to you about your mother?”
Henry paused and then shook his head, looking at Spot curiously. “Muggs? No. But he doesn’t get cross at me when I ask about her, not like Daddy.”
Spot descended the stairs just in time to glimpse Muggs sneaking out the front door. Without a moment's hesitation, Spot followed him. He had missed the chance to run after Muggs in January 1894 and had no intention of letting it happen again anytime soon. When Muggs heard the door close behind him, he looked back, his foot poised on the lowest step leading to the street. He wasn't precisely wary, but he was cautious. Spot tiredly removed his cap and raised an eyebrow at Muggs.
“It’s decided,” Spot said with a half-humored smile. “I’m going to tell Katherine I love her tonight.”
“Well, carry me out & bury me nice.” Muggs retrieved a cigarette stub from his pocket and placed it between his lips.
“Is that all you’ve got to say?”
“Bully,” Muggs replied, giving a wink.
“Aren’t you curious why?”
“I’ll get it from Julia in the morning. She’s a prettier storyteller.”
“You’re such a prick,” Spot gaped.
“If you're interested in me remembering this tomorrow, don't go into further detail now," Muggs suggested, checking his Elgin pocket watch. “Anyway, we’re off. I can feel myself sobering up, and I need it to stop right the fuck now. Waste no more of my time, Conlon, and set to.”
“About what you told Henry,” Spot continued, lingering back against the side of the railing. “Saying those things about Natalie. That was on the level. You did him a good turn.”
“Hmm?” Muggs said, already crossing the street to join Cohen by the hansom. He’d finally managed to flag down and walk over wet patches of cobblestone, not paying Spot any attention—the way he always did.
It was maddening.
“Thank you,” Spot said.
Muggs stood calmly in the middle of the street, shrugging his shoulders. The tired lines beneath his eyes seemed to fade slightly as he glanced back at Spot. "It's ain’t much," he remarked casually.
Cohen stuck his head out of the hack. “I will leave both your asses if you don’t get in here! It’s fuckin’ freezing!”
“I’ve noticed you’re not loaded with cocaine tonight,” Spot said to Muggs as he climbed into the hansom. “What gives?”
Muggs ran his tongue along his teeth again, the sort of thing he does when amused. It came and went, though, and the polished-bone wolf’s smile took its place.
“Julia likes me better this way,” he confessed, squeezing in beside Spot and opposite Cohen. He leaned in closer, away from the cab driver’s listening ear, and added over his shoulder, “Plus, some things are best enjoyed slow. Cocaine made everything go by too fast.”
Cohen’s smirk was the perfect balance to Spot’s grimace as soon as the vague comment was translated.
“So being a better slut made you get sober,” Spot concluded. “That’s progress, I think.”
Rain needled the lamplight. The cab lurched, wheels clattering over wet stone.
Pulling a flask from his inner coat pocket, Cohen took a swig and passed it to Muggs. “To progress," Cohen said.
Muggs enthusiastically accepted the flask and drank the last of his intelligent, coherent senses. “To temperance.”
As it was encouragingly shoved into his grasp, Spot sighed and raised it. The severe jostle of the hansom practically forced it to his lips. “To Julia,” he said sincerely, taking a long, dizzying pull of the cold gin. He squeezed his eyes for a moment, feeling the familiar surge of heat spread through his body like Edison’s electrical panel lighting the New York Times building. “You should’ve warmed her bed sooner.”
Chapter 21: Next John Morrissey
Summary:
“You’ve got sand, kid. But I trust you ain’t no fool, either.” Knox folded his thick arms and nodded once again to Colm. “But the real negotiating’s for the men. You’re still a sprat, meanin’ your pa gets your cut ‘til you come of age. Once you’ve established yourself, shown the public you’re one mean sonovabitch. But from what I just seen already, you’re well on your way to infamy, my boy. With the right work, you could be the next John Morrissey."
Jesse blinked, unable to hide his flattered smile from the gangster’s compliment. Knox stepped away toward the opposite end of the ring and fetched Jesse a towel to wipe his face.
“Thank you, sir.”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
July 1890
Brooklyn, NY
In the middle of a smoke-filled basement beneath engine house twenty-six, a group of spectators huddled in secrecy, their eyes fixed on a makeshift ring on the floor, crudely drawn with white chalk. They were primarily firemen of the twenty-sixth, baying for blood as the two opponents circled each other—one already close to collapse.
“Go on, Jesse!” Colm Tracey urged from the sides, his green eyes practically turning black as his sixteen-year-old son dodged another swing. “Not so controlled!”
Jesse lunged forward, a frightened look on his face, knowing he was disappointing Colm, his fists flying, a flurry of punches that displayed raw, untamed energy. His opponent, Jab Johnson—a seasoned fighter with a scarred face and a lifetime of brawls etched in his eyes—blocked Jesse’s blows effortlessly.
“Harder, Jesse!” Colm’s voice cut through the noise of the cheering firefighters. He ran a hand through his hair, looking on in frustration. “Mustn’t let him tag you!”
Squaring his shoulders, Jesse landed a solid punch on Jab’s jaw. The boxer staggered back, some surprise flickering in his hooded eyes. The men roared in approval.
Jesse attacked with newfound ferocity. His punches became more savage, fueled by adrenaline and the desire to silence his father’s relentless jeers.
Bloodied and bruised, Jesse pressed on, filling the basement with grunts, thuds, and sinister laughter. Although his movement was exact, there was a definite vulnerability that didn’t go unnoticed by Colm. He looked exactly as Colm had at that tender age, some sixteen years ago—fearful and sad. It was the fear that only made his actions more wretched, more brutal.
A man with an intense and brooding stare looked on until. Finally, he waved his arm, and a bell rang, causing the two fighters to stop abruptly. “I’ve seen enough.”
Approaching them, the gangster got close enough to see Jesse’s bare sternum muscles move and tapped him on the shoulder with two fingers.
“Well, kid, looks like you can take a fine beating,” Goo Goo Knox, the notorious Hudson Duster captain, said, his lips twitching into a smirk beneath his well-manicured mustache. Knox angled his head toward the older fighter. “Nearly gave Jab here a run for his money, and he is one of my best brawlers. Not including your pa, of course.”
Jesse caught his breath, looking into the magnetically hellish eyes of the almost gentleman-looking gangster. “Nearly,” he managed in a rasp, eyeing Jab scornfully behind Knox.
Jab now rested similarly with his hands on his knees.
Jesse straightened his aching muscles rather quickly after catching his father’s stern look from across the ring, silently commanding him to pull himself up. With a stifled groan from somewhere deep in the soft tissue, Jesse stretched his still-growing height and jutted his chin upward in casual confidence the way he’d seen his father do.
Knox nodded to Jab in thanks for the demonstration as Jab walked away with a few cronies for chops—meaning lunch.
“So, Jesse,” Knox continued, sizing him up like an animal at auction, “how’d you like to make some honest dough, fightin’ for me and my boys?”
Jesse didn’t have to look at Colm to see that he was widening his eyes in affirmation. It didn’t matter what Jesse thought. Jesse knew how important it was that Knox liked him and that Knox was impressed with the show he’d put on. That he could be helpful. The beginning of an exemplary and promising future.
“That depends,” Jesse said, feeling the heat from Colm’s glare. The boy sniffed a string of blood from his left nostril, feeling it sting inside the nasal passage.
“Depends?” Knox asked in vague amusement. He looked back at Colm and then at the boy. “On what, hm?”
Jesse ran a hand through his ink-black hair. It felt warm and damp, sticking to his fingers. “On the percentage of dough I take.”
Knox regarded him intently and then threw his head back with a roar of laughter. The other firefighters laughed likewise in pleased awe, nudging each other and commenting on the nerve of Colm’s boy, his sanity, and the size of Jesse Tracey’s genitalia.
When he’d composed himself, Knox leaned in and spoke in a manner so only Jesse could hear him amidst the noise.
“You’ve got sand, kid. But I trust you ain’t no fool, either.” Knox folded his thick arms and nodded once again to Colm. “But the real negotiating’s for the men. You’re still a sprat, meanin’ your pa gets your cut ‘til you come of age. Once you’ve established yourself, shown the public you’re one mean sonovabitch. But from what I just seen already, you’re well on your way to infamy, my boy. With the right work, you could be the next John Morrissey."
Jesse blinked, unable to hide his flattered smile from the gangster’s compliment. Knox stepped away toward the opposite end of the ring and fetched Jesse a towel to wipe his face.
“Thank you, sir.”
Knox folded his arms once again. “My boys don’t lose unless I tell ‘em to,” he said meaningfully. “And my boys don’t win unless I tell them to. If you fight for me, I call the match. You only have to follow what I say, and I guarantee a real future for you. Understand?”
“But…” Jesse began, knowing he should stop wagging his tongue before he screwed the whole thing up for himself and his father. “The cut my dad gets—”
“I said, let your father and I discuss it,” Knox said with another chuckle, this timeless jovial. “Not to worry, kid, that doesn’t mean you get nothin’ for your labor. Free drinks and fast women come with the territory.”
Nervously, Jesse glanced over at his impatient father and then, finally, over to the darkened stairs that led up to the engine house, where his eleven-year-old brother Matthew Tracey sat. Watching as silently as a monk, like he’d lost his tongue. He hadn’t made a single noise during the fight, save for a small curse when Jab had sent Jesse spinning at the start with a blow to the face.
Matthew returned Jesse’s sudden attention with an anxious look of his own. The money from his boxing would be a tremendous help at home, and should Colm receive a generous cut from Knox, then perhaps life could be worth living after all.
Taking a few breaths, Jesse nodded and stuck out his hand. “Sounds fair.”
Knox firmly shook Jesse's hand with another smirk beneath the oiled mustache, squeezing so hard the fresh callouses burned and stung.
***
Matthew stood outside the engine house lavatories, waiting for Jesse to finish vomiting into the toilet and return as the man Matthew knew him as. Unshakeable, honest, and uncompromising. He glanced beneath the stall door, seeing Jesse knelt, dry heaving and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
When Jesse emerged, slightly flushed and disheveled, he offered Matthew a half-shrug and motioned for him to follow out the door.
Matthew walked beside his brother on the quiet side street, which was less trafficked and far less bustling at that time of night. He clutched Jesse’s jacket in his arms, feeling warmed and comforted by its familiar scent. It looked so big, having first belonged to their father. Jesse let the cool summer breeze molest any free surface of the skin, eager to dive into the brown, cold Hudson waters to rinse off quickly. And then changed his mind the closer they got to the foul-smelling waterfront.
“Wanna go swim at the bathhouse?” Matthew asked, not bothering to look up at his brother as Jesse guided him onto the main streets again, maneuvering them as one unit through carts and foot traffic. “I was thinkin’ we could get egg creams after. I’ve got the money for both of us. Flash enough headline today—"
“Can’t. I have to meet Cian in the Hall. Another clandestine party meeting, savvy?”
Matthew nodded to himself, having forgotten. “Oh, yeah. Damn."
Jesse pulled his brother away from a puddle of filth at the last moment.
"But how about when you get done?”
“Another time, Matt,” Jesse said, looking up and down the street as he often did, alert for any sign of trouble. “What’s your gang up to tonight?” He teased. “Surely they’ve got some fun you can join in on.”
“No Name’s for the rat fights with Tide. He’s arming along that little Italian cove, Racetrack Higgins. He’s ten, and he fancies himself a fuckin’ bookie,” Matthew said after a moment of thought. “Anyway, Tide told me there’s a new dog who scraps more like a jabberwocky than a canine. He eats the rats after he lays them out neat. Gorey shows and all the small beers Tide will buy us. Folks see him older than he is, and he won pretty good at the devil books.”
Jesse hid his smirk as Matthew prattled on. His little brother had begun chattering the slang of him and his friends, and it never failed to amuse Jesse when Matthew used words like ‘ok’ and ‘bleak-mort’ and ‘devil books.’
“See? That’s much better than what I’ve got goin’,” Jesse replied genuinely. “Why don’t you go? They asked you, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, but…” Matthew’s eyes glowed with longing as they passed the large window of the soda parlor that sold drop cakes, “I said I couldn’t go.”
Jesse scoffed, shaking his head. “Why? That doesn’t sound like something you’d pass up.”
Cheeks burning, Matthew ducked his head away from Jesse and pretended to be too busy staring at a quarrel that had broken out between a quilt vendor and a woman. Jesse slowed as his brother grew quiet and finally looked down to see the boy wordlessly counting the meager coins he’d pulled from his pocket.
“Oh.” Jesse stopped walking. He tried to meet his brother’s eyes. “You had plans with me, didn’t you?”
Matthew didn’t answer. Jesse glanced down at the coins his brother had managed to scrounge up for the evening he’d wanted.
“That ain’t just from today’s headline,” Jesse remarked evenly. “That’s from skippin’ lunch, too.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Matthew replied. “Another time, right?”
“Yes, Matt, I swear,” Jesse insisted, his eyes getting the glazed look they often displayed when he was upset. “Tomorrow, or…, no, I can’t tomorrow either…” He looked off, wracking his mind’s calendar. “How about Friday? We’ve got nothin’, and Dad’s at the station all day. Just you and me.”
Matthew snuck a glance up at Jesse, who gave him a wink.
“How about I buy us two sarsaparillas right now, and you buy us two egg creams on Friday? Then we’re square.”
“You mean it?” Matthew asked, his entire face changing in the flicker of the streetlamps.
“Sure, kid,” Jesse said, steering the boy toward the soda parlor’s warm glow. “You ain’t the only one with money to spend, Mr. Vanderbilt.”
“What about Uncle Cian?”
“He can wait a few minutes more, and so can the Hall.” Jesse gave Matthew a playful cuff to the back of his head. “Let me worry about that.”
***
“She spends far too much bloody time over there if you ask me,” Colm snarled, staring at the newspaper on the kitchen table before him. “And what in the hell is Emily Conlon teaching her anyway, hm? Colleen doesn’t need arithmetic. She should be…I don’t know, playing with her dolls and learning to bake with you.”
The thirty-two-year-old mountain of a hook and ladder man shoved the empty bowl of borscht away, having finally become adapted to the taste after the Valeriya had made it enough times and given him no other options for supper. Rubbing his chiseled jawline, he sprawled in his chair and inhaled sharply, trying to readjust his long legs beneath the wooden tabletop.
“Matthew needs to watch what he says around her. That’s another thing. He’s been swearing like a sailor, and Colleen’s echoing it like a fuckin’ parrot. And now I got Dom Conlon in my ear tellin’ me he’s heard our girl cussing and then laughing about it like she thinks it’s funny.” His laudanum-constricted pupils scanned the political columns with interest, fingering his glass of gin but not bringing it to his lips, entranced in the article. Reading the information while he spoke of other matters seamlessly. “Jesse’s been good about it, but Matthew’s saying all kinds of foul things I’d never dare say in front of my father. Even today. That boy will ruin this family if we aren’t too careful. He can be taught, but I can’t be everywhere at once to teach him. You mustn’t let him speak that way when I ain’t home.”
He ground his teeth and traced the dried-ink words on the page. “My God, what the hell has happened to The World? Every quote from David Hill makes him sound more like a thick-pated milksop. ‘Course that prick Fassett is favored in this rag. They’ve kept his quotes brief, mind. Cian’s money’s still on Hill come November, but I don’t think it’ll be as landslide as we’d like. I’ve got my work cut out for me, God knows.”
He finally pulled from the gin and stared at the words, hating a particular passage and skimming past it to an article on the following page. “Knox took a liking to Jesse, by the way,” he muttered in a quieter but far more pleased tone. “Wants to see more of him. He says he can get Jesse fighting by election season after some training of his kind. He wants to make sure Jesse gets the best. And Jesse can be the best, but the kid’s gotta learn to hold his tongue. He doesn’t know that challenging the wrong fellow can get him silenced quickly. Maybe I haven’t been as tough on him as I should’ve. I’ve been too fuckin’ lenient, and that’s why he’s got the dash to ask Knox—why’d you stop?”
Lowering the paper, he glanced down beneath the table. “It ain’t like Knox will hurt him, not while I’m around.” He resumed his place on the page and continued scanning. “Anyhow, you should’ve seen the kid today, V. He was a damn savage in that ring, on the muscle and keeping up with Jab as I taught him. He has worked on his left hook, but all that can be practiced. What do you think about him spending more nights at the station with me? I reckon the sooner I iron out those flaws in his technique, the better. V? Valeriya.”
Beneath the table, between Colm’s sprawled legs, Valeriya Tracey caught her breath and coughed to relieve the tickle in the back of her throat. She wiped once at her glassy eyes with the sleeve of her shirtwaist and then again at her swollen lips, tearing through a spiderweb-like strand of spit. She peered up at him, finding Colm still focused on whatever he was reading, this time awaiting an answer. His abdomen rose and fell tautly at whatever bit of unpleasant news he’d just absorbed from Pulitzer’s political correspondent.
She sat back on her knees, brushing away the wisps of hair that had come undone from the braided updo atop her head.
“I don’t mind,” she answered hoarsely. “You come and go as you please. Why shouldn’t he?”
Colm shook his head. “I know that ain’t how you feel. You don’t want him to leave.”
Valeriya was quiet again momentarily before giving Colm a reason to grip the table until his knuckles turned white.
“He’s a smart kid, V,” Colm went on, this time sparing more than a passing glance beneath the table as the Belarusian beauty labored, adding a calloused hand to rake back the loose blonde tresses. “Kid…the boy’s sixteen, for fuck’s sake. He isn’t a kid anymore. He’s a man now. Like I was, and he needs to start acting like it.”
Her hum was muffled, followed by another strangled noise, and finally, a gasp of air as his hand left her hair, and she sat back again. She was raggedly breathing like she was trapped in a burning building.
“You had a newborn at sixteen and other fires to put out,” Valeriya reminded him, her ‘r’s rolling elegantly as she spoke. Placing her hands on Colm’s clothed thighs, she pulled herself further up from her aching knees. “Jesse will not do the same.”
Colm rolled his eyes emphatically. “You’re right. Jesse will not do the same, so all that extra training will give him something to do day and night. Besides, he knows I don’t let him go around with a regular gal.” He finished the gin in one shot. “So, how about I take him with me this Friday? Let him ride along with the fellas.”
“What Nikolai does…Matvei will want also,” she replied without much heart behind the words but aching bones behind them.
Valeriya’s warm sigh into his lap made Colm throw back his head and give a low whine. Something about that noise gave Valeriya the reassurance she needed to answer honestly. And change the subject completely, as always, through her actions.
Curses tumbled from his mouth, his chest heaving as his lids fell closed. “Can’t we never have a serious conversation?” His hand found her hair again, desperately trying to control the situation and steer the conversation back on course—a warning.
She held on tighter as her mind went blank, feeling Colm’s body tense, watching the muscles in his stomach contract like electrical waves.
Valeriya sat back, pressing a kiss to one of his knees, which might’ve caused Colm to shiver, were he capable. Instead, he stood, yanking his braces back over his shoulders and tucking in the flannel shirt. With Colm’s large hands held out to her, Valeriya was lifted to her feet as if gravity had blinked and forgotten her.
She hummed a laugh at the sensation of being sailed through the air, almost like it was a dance. “Are you staying the night, lyubimyy?”
“I’ve got to be at the Hall in less than an hour, and afterward, Jab owes me a drink or two. Sap’s lousy at devil books. I’ll crash at the firehouse,” Colm replied, reaching for his hat and coat. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll send Jesse home as soon as the bar closes.”
“Is Jesse going with you tonight?” Valeriya asked, a disappointed look in her cloudy blue eyes. “Only, Matthew was hoping…Colm, can’t Jesse miss this one?”
Colm laughed as he tugged on his coat, crossing the floor to the front entryway in only a few long strides. “V, you know the answer to that. See that Emily Conlon brings Colleen back soon. I want her asleep—”
“Right away, Captain Tracey,” Valeriya interrupted sharply, handing him the billfold he’d left on the table. She reached up to hold the lapels of his coat, angling a wicked, knowing smirk up at him. “Can I expect you tomorrow night?”
Pausing, Colm looked away as he struggled to puzzle over the following evening’s agenda. “That depends on what The World prints on Hill next.”
She tightened her grip, pulling him closer to him. “Then start buying The Journal.”
Colm raised an eyebrow in mock surprise, throwing open the door, taking her hands in his, and prying them off his lapels. “I thought we were meant to be supporting our newsboy. I wouldn’t give that miserable rag another read otherwise.”
Mumbling something in Russian, Valeriya suppressed a laugh, which Colm caught with another kiss. This one was deeper, leaving his chest heaving and her lungs burning. Dizzy and meaningful. They reminded her of when they’d been no more than a quick-tempered Refuge runaway and a clever, hot corn girl.
“Lock the door behind me.”
“Just go, C.”
“I’ll see you later, V.”
Chapter 22: Hudson Duster Gala
Summary:
“Certainly, May,” Spot agreed, linking his arm with hers as the group descended. He turned to Kate. “Has anyone seen you like that yet?”
“Seen me like what?”
“Like…I don’t know. In a Kabo corset.”
Kate quirked her brow and looked down at her bodice. “Is that what it is?”
“It doesn’t matter. Jesus, I’ll have to fight off every Hudson Duster in the joint.”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
March 1902
Manhattan, NY
This isn’t you, Spot’s brain weakly protested as he hopped out of the hansom on the west side.
He was uncertain what time it was by then, though he felt spruce despite it all. Near midnight, if the church bells could be trusted. Moonlight and moonshine. Cohen’s flask had kept pace with the hack’s wheels. Spot’s head was a little swimmy but game as they climbed the Banshee’s steps.
The Duster cronies dished them fried oysters. The barmaids with bandannas over their intricately worked hair spooned grainy baked peas from their earthenware pots. They toasted one another’s health with numerous glasses of rum. They were men of action, men the gods kept their hands off. Spot honestly believed that for a radiant moment.
There had been severe skirmishes outside, reports of unhealthy sorts of knife wounds, and too many trivial altercations to mention. Cohen, Muggs, and Spot were well and truly drunk, with all the blind contentment of a blood tick.
“What the devil are you wearing?” The voice had money in it. Cian Tracey snapped open a silver case, a crest winking on the lid, and lit.
Cian Tracey took a deep drag, his mouth pretty and clean-shaven.
The Banshee was Hell’s Kitchen’s low-liquor hell in the comfortable mode, a bastion of Tammany Hall and Hudson Duster insiders and the fresh emigrants who fawn over them. Beyond the dust-shrouded canopy of American flags, back where hardened men revel until dawn. A truly regrettable taxidermized bald eagle presided there, wings unfurled, over equally distasteful proceedings.
Flanking Cian to his left was none other than Jab Johnson, who had a hard time identifying strangeness, according to Spot. The smell of a rat. He eyed Spot up and down.
“Did someone knock you in the head and dress you like a Tammany Dead Rabbit?” Jab asked, eyes raking him.
Spot smiled down at the shocking-blue bow. “Don’t worry. I’m not applying for membership.”
Cian, Spot thought, is speaking to you. Keep it light.
“Why should you want to know what I’m wearing? Aren’t you happy to see me out?” Spot demanded semi-coherently, attempting to sit up in a canyon-like armchair.
“It took nearly half an hour to persuade him along. Don’t go scaring him away,” Cohen said from the low sofa opposite Muggs, who snorted his agreement to the ceiling.
“You’re at a Tammany function?” Cian demanded. Deeply perplexed.
Cian looked healthy enough for the balcony but not the front row. His face was cleanly shaven and his collar spotless, but he’d barked his knuckles on a set of teeth, and his eyes remained sunken as tombstones.
Spot remembered what he couldn’t avoid telling him anymore, and his breath caught in his throat.
“Cian—” Spot began.
“There you are!”
Spot’s head lifted toward the sound of the soft voice.
At almost the same time, Cohen slumped further into the chair, hoping to melt into it entirely.
Lilac, velvet, and an obnoxious little laugh. Nell Anderson shook off a rose cloak. Muggs sat up like someone had cracked a window to winter.
She glanced at Cohen, then at Muggs.
Cohen was already eyeing Spot, a single brow raised in sincere distaste—and severe alarm.
“Ah, there’s the lady herself,” Jab chirped, pulling up a chair for her. “Do sit down.”
“Many thanks, Mr. Johnson. Mr. Tracey. Matthew, Aaron.”
Her voice was plumb-line straight, determined—not the girlish tone she used when flaming someone. A worm of disquiet commenced burrowing down Spot’s spine even as the faint aroma of lilacs spread.
He knew that Nell Anderson was a death trap waiting to spring. But as any man of science knew, there was a long, lonesome mile between comprehending the nature of a powerful force and proving it. Her breed of lawbreaking wasn’t the sort that Tammany minded overmuch, it being the variety that raked in the stiff dough, which she then showered all over and sundry as if she were a captive djinn.
Meanwhile, her arrival sent Spot’s teeth scraping.
Cian’s face presented an unstudied blank. Jab Johnson pulled out a cigar from a carved ivory box, ideally at his ease. Of those assembled, he was the only one who might not have known her soul to be tissue-thin.
But then again, he might have known and failed to care. It wasn’t as if Jab was a stranger to killing things. With a grumble about locating his brother, Cian fled with Jab in tow. Cian threw Spot a look across the crowd—later. Spot tipped two fingers: later.
“Matthew, my word, are you unwell?” Nell exclaimed.
It was honestly asked. She might not have cared for humans, but as the mistress of countless young men on Randall’s Island, she sometimes treated them as regrettable pieces of lost property. Spot imagined she’d have looked so if a prized necklace had been stolen from her to be cut up piecemeal and sold. But Muggs looked like three different flavors of dead inside, so the query was sound.
“Hale and hearty,” Muggs answered.
Spot delivered a particularly savage eye roll.
“You seem…blue,” she continued, pulling her gloves from her fingers.
“Too much socializing for one night,” Muggs answered, sounding bright, to Spot’s surprise, as though he were happy to have her conversation.
“Yes, I imagine you have the attention of almost everyone here. And despite my devotion to Colm, I hope you’ll make time to entertain me tonight. I should like to spoil you with a gift.”
“Oh?” Muggs’ smile was well-practiced. The smile that was all canines and no actual pleasure. “It ain’t even my birthday.”
“I’m in a generous mood,” she said. “With your father so kind as to escort me, I feel almost like a debutante. He’s a real gentleman, your father. If only I’d met him sooner.” A dreamy blink. “Why, if I married Colm, I’d be your mother.”
"How irregular," Muggs said mildly. “I suppose if my father married a carnivorous witch, she’d be my mother, too.”
There was a slight crack behind the glimmer in Nell's beautiful face. She hid it with a girlish giggle. "Oh, Matthew, you have your father's wicked tongue, don't you?" She leaned in closer, reveling in the way he cringed when she whispered, "Although I do enjoy his wicked tongue." She pulled away to face Cohen. "And Aaron, what is there to do with you?” she insisted. “You mustn’t drink yourself into near unconsciousness.”
“Mustn’t he?” Spot muttered, meaning to mock her soft tone.
Cohen would have glared daggers at Spot had he been alert enough to focus his eyes.
“Oh! Mr. Conlon,” Nell said to him affectionately. “Apologies, I didn’t recognize you.”
Spot’s eyes didn’t lift from the bottle in his hand.
“I’m rather surprised to find you unbridled from your lodging companion. I caught sight of her in the powder room just moments ago,” Nell said to Spot, indicating Kate. She displayed the line of her slender neck as the bartender delivered her a glass of rum. “And you’ve untethered from yours, Matthew. Where is Alexei?”
Muggs’ green eyes sparkled in flinty fashion. “I imagine he’s with his fiancée, Mrs. Anderson.” His mouth twitched as he studied her, as if her ignorance amused him. “Having a hell of a time.”
Amidst the chorus of amens in Spot’s head, he caught a small sigh from Nell. It was a cat's sound when it felt greatly appreciated and curled up to bask in the sun.
Spot tapped his bottle against the armrest and kept studying the guests, noticing Colm weaving through the adoring mob at the front of the bar.
Nell marginally straightened her posture. “Am I allowed to know who the lucky bride-to-be is?”
“By all means,” Muggs allowed. “I’ll be sure to introduce you when she arrives.”
“Would you?” Her tone was a strange combination of ease and practice. It betrayed nothing.
“Mm-hm,” Muggs hummed, his cheeks dimpling as his long legs sprawled beneath the small table.
“How about we give you a run-down on everyone while we’re at it?” Spot asked sarcastically, and his brain determined he was drunk enough to run with it.
Something ticklish was skimming along the edges of his thumbs.
Nell’s brow tilted as if she were smiling at him. “I’d like that very much, Mr. Conlon. But the ladies’ powder room is a wonderous sanctuary for gossip. Almost like a church confessional. I’m sure I know plenty already.”
“Like what?” Spot regretted challenging her almost immediately.
“Mrs. Camille Marquette is expecting again—three, won’t it? I heard her crying in the powder room.” Nell's tone was smooth as cream. "It frightened me for her. If only she'd had the right...sense."
Spot’s throat tightened. Muggs eyed her up and down.
Cohen sipped his gin as if he were miles away. Utterly unperturbed.
“Have you children, Mrs. Anderson?” Spot asked in disbelief.
She offered a smile that was meant to be humble. “I count all the children I looked after on the island as mine. I wasn’t blessed to have one of my own.”
“I recall you almost having one,” Cohen slurred, his back to the approaching fire captain, Colm Tracey.
She didn’t seem to hear.
“Ah, it doesn’t matter,” Cohen said to the rim of his glass. “It’s gone now, thank God.”
The room’s clink dimmed for a breath. Spot’s eyes flicked from her to Cohen. Then he stood and pushed into the crush.
No one called after him.
***
Feeling somewhat embarrassed in the borrowed cinched corset and dress, Kate had ducked around the bar and quickly located the stairs of the pub as soon minutes after she’d arrived. She sat on the bench outside the patio and lit a cigarette. Just this one, she told herself, and the next time, she’d go downstairs to smoke another and socialize. Meet new people. She was sure some of the other young women she saw felt as shy and strange as she did amongst all those men, but still, she wished someone would come up to her and start a conversation.
“There you are!” Colleen called happily as she climbed the stairs, giving Kate a genuine smile.
Kate took in Colleen’s rather revealing ensemble, a little overwhelmed. She stood barefoot, clutching her boots in her hands.
“Evidently.”
“I’m glad you decided to come to the party,” Colleen said. She leaned over the seated Kate to adjust the coal-colored makeup lining her eyes in the wide mirror. “Do you want to be alone? I’ll leave you if you like. Oh! Muggs is wondering if Julia’s coming, too. He asked me to ask you. And I told him, ‘You practically live with her, don’t you know?’”
“What?”
“Yes, and he told me he didn’t know because he and Dad got into an awful fight this afternoon, and Julia said she needed to lie down for a while. She thought she might be sick. Something to do with an upset stomach. It’s wild. I mean, Dad would never fight with Muggs in front of Julia. He’s a fucking gentleman.”
“What were they fighting about?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Just the usual. Do come downstairs, though! There are some friends I’d like you to meet! You’re missing all the fun, I swear.” She turned from the mirror to leave, resting her hand on the fence. “I’ll be at a table with Leah! She’s telling everyone she dressed you. Like she’s some rich French couturier, and to her genius, you look like a China doll.”
“A China doll?” Kate echoed, but Colleen was already gone.
Kate wandered back into the dark corridor. Alone, she looked around at the club rooms of the Banshee up a half-flight, tucked behind the balcony, exploring the look of the place in more detail. As she stared at an old map of the city on the wall, a burst of laughter came from just beyond.
Following it, she found herself in a brightly colored, informal drinking room that appeared well-used by patrons. With its big paintings and shelves full of old newspapers and books, it felt at odds with the seedy furnishings of the rest of the downstairs pub.
Lion, Cards, and Shakespeare were gathered around a table at the center, half-reading a fading yellow newspaper.
Draped over a long sofa at the side of the room were two jeweled women in their forties, both holding elegant tumblers of brandy. Marquette’s mother, Genevieve, had been a model for an artist in Paris, but she now worked as a courtesan in an ornamental brownstone uptown. Her eccentricities and lavish clothes only marginally obscured her sorrow and denial over the turn her life had taken so many years ago—the fall from grace.
She was talking to May Mahoney, who appeared slightly younger thanks to the amount of makeup caking her face. She was beautiful, dressed like a Bowery moll from Princess Gibson waist down to patent leather Radcliffe boots. Despite it all, she had an air of permanent studied boredom mixed with crippling self-consciousness.
“Well, I daresay, it’s common knowledge amongst us that she may have employed a substance of a rather sinister nature, leading to his unfortunate demise,” May was saying to her friend, her heavy Irish lilt hoarse and deep.
“Oui, Mon Dieu, oui,” Genevieve agreed in her breathy French voice. “Yes, I can imagine she did.”
“Indeed, it is a matter widely known, yet we’re all hesitant when it comes to seeking legal retribution against her, I gather.”
“Have you asked your son where she was five years ago?”
“Why should Jamie know?” May turned to Cards. “Darling, where was she five years ago? I’m curious.”
“She worked on Randall’s,” Cards offered curtly, not bothering to turn his head.
“As a whore?” May wondered in confusion, taking another sip of her brandy.
“No, Ma, as a matron,” Cards supplied. “Not every one of your friends are whores.”
May swatted him with her handkerchief. “Don’t be flippant.”
“Mon Dieu,” Genevieve concurred absently. “But Penelope Anderson is far from a friend.”
“Don’t you like her either?” Lion asked Genevieve.
Genevieve shook her head. “Oh, she’s much too arrogant to be good company.”
“Ah,” May sighed. “She’s no ordinary woman, that one. Now she’s taken up with Colm Tracey, of all people. Good Lord, parading herself like some grand prize right under Valeriya’s nose as if the poor woman hasn’t suffered enough. Did you catch the look on Cian’s face when Colm strolled in with Nell Anderson on his arm? Even he can sense it’s a shameful spectacle. It's just a wretched mess it is. A sin.”
“Well, Colm has always been a sinner, but that is by the by.” Genevieve turned to Lion. “Is it true that she used to attend flagellations in this terrible place? Charles told me.”
“More than that,” Cards answered in Lion’s place, seeing his friend begin to deny it. “She used to lick the blood off our backs.”
Genevieve gasped in horror and clutched her friend’s arm as May swayed with her glass, spilling a drop on the sofa at the impact.
“She did not.” Genevieve’s eyes widened at the thought while Cards continued to pour himself the rest of the whiskey, wholly unperturbed.
“Mm-hm,” Cards replied, tossing the empty bottle into the ash bucket near the hearth. “Said she liked the taste better than the reddest wines of France.”
“Do let go, Genny,” May whined, wriggling her wrist out of the horrified French woman’s grasp. “Dammit, now I’ve lost my last sip.”
“Cards, you’re not meant to be sharing that,” Shakespeare warned his friend in a low voice with an elbow to the ribs.
“Well, they don’t call her a witch for nothing,” Cards said with a shrug. “It ain’t a lie.”
“It isn’t a headline to be cried out and sold either.”
“It’s gruesome.” May squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, flickering her gaze to Cards again. She tried to smile. “She never did such an unnatural thing to you, darling?”
Cards hesitated and then shook his head.
“Or to my Charles?” Genevieve asked, sounding far more alarmed than her counterpart.
Cards looked back at Shakespeare and Lion as if catching some hidden signal. “I don’t recall.”
“Well, that’s a relief anyway,” May decided, kicking up her legs and propping them atop the table, revealing a set of black silk stockings that Lion eyed hungrily. “What a dreadful notion.”
“I think that it is démoniaque,” Genevieve said. “A woman who finds erotic the blood of tortured men is mad.”
“We must warn Colm,” May suggested to Genevieve. “Lest she drink his blood, too. Or perhaps he’d like it, aye?”
Lion rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t drink blood.”
“Lion seems to think she’s amusing,” May said to no one in particular. She turned back to Shakespeare and Cards. “Do you find her so, darlings?”
“Oh, May.” Genevieve shook her head. “That is l’effet sirène—”
Finally, Kate edged into the drinking room.
“There she is!” Lion interrupted with a bemused grin. “We were just talking about you!”
The faces all turned, all eyes on Kate.
“Don’t be absurd,” May cooed, greeting her. “Lion, you have a knack for conjuring up the most incredible tales. We most certainly weren’t. Greetings, Katherine, my dear. I’m May. Jamie’s mother.”
The hug was unexpected, and Kate felt her body stiffen as she got a nose-full of sweet perfume in May’s ample cleavage.
“Oh, what splendid emerald eyes! Like I’ve seen them before, almost. Funny, isn’t it?” May gasped as she looked down at the girl. “Such exquisite beauty.”
Cards smirked. “Were you expecting Spot Conlon to have picked a fright for himself?”
“Yes, darling, but you remain impartial to everyone. One can hardly rely on your judgment,” May waved him off, looking back at Kate. “Katherine, I harbor an absolute aversion to anything unsightly. It’s been with me since my youth. That’s precisely why I chose to have a baby with a handsome man.”
“Who later died a drunk,” Cards teased from the table.
“Don’t be unkind,” May snapped, ignoring him. She gave a promising smile to Kate. “Has Spot laid eyes on you yet? Oh, heavens, he’ll be positively beside himself. He’s been lounging about the premises all evening. He so wanted to make you come.”
Lion snorted. “I bet he did.”
“Shut up,” Shakespeare groaned, rising from his seat to give Kate a warm handshake. “The poor girl’s only just arrived. Katherine, it’s good to see you here. Was Grim a congenial escort?”
“Yes,” Kate answered, catching her breath. “Thank you for insisting he bring me Shakes.”
May brushed a curl away from Kate’s cheek. “Have you gotten anything to drink?”
“Yes, ma’am. A little bit downstairs.”
“Oh, God, spare me the ‘ma’am.’ No, no, no, I won’t have any of that,” May fretted, taking Kate by the shoulders and giving her a gentle shake. “Come along now. Join us and take a seat. We’re far past the need for such airs.”
May gestured toward Genevieve, who moved on the sofa so May could pull Kate down next to her. “This is my dear friend Genevieve, Charlie’s mother. We once lived together, you see.”
“Enchante,” Genevieve hummed, appearing very intoxicated to Kate.
“Boys, darlings, could you go and find Bill and inquire about more complimentary brandy?” May asked the three young men. “The girls need to talk in private for a moment.”
“Yeah,” Cards said, hesitating. “Sure. Who’s Bill?”
“You’ll find him, darling. Bill. The one I’ve been telling you about,” May assured.
Cards stood, the other two following suit. “Where’s, um—”
“You’ll know him, darling. He looks a bit like your father—”
“Does he.”
“He is behind the bar,” Genevieve offered.
“Ah, behind the bar,” Cards echoed in a low murmur. “Bar. So, Bill’s a bartender…Bill gives you complimentary drinks.”
The other two left uncertainly, but Cards lingered by the door.
“Off you go,” May insisted, shooing him with her hands.
“Right.” Cards gave Kate a weary look and then exited.
May sighed and nodded, waiting until her son descended the stairs. “Poor Bill. He’s offered marriage twice, and I keep turning him down. He’s had an awful time this year and is truly hideous. But oh! Katherine, you’ve also had your share of tribulations! God, I’m sorry to hear about your near brush with death. How utterly, utterly tragic. I’ve lost far too many friends to opium, so many close friends. It’s also the source of poor Alexei Morozov’s torments, I’m afraid.”
“He is a terrible boy,” Genevieve added.
“Genevieve!” May covered her smile. “No, he is rather dreadful. But he’s so beautiful. You must admit he’s wonderful.”
Genevieve nodded. “I suppose that cannot be denied.”
“But it’s only ever been a curse,” May continued. “I mean the woman, Katherine. You wouldn’t believe it. I remember one was some ghastly Bowery hophead. Malignantly dirty, of course. She’s been holed up in his flat for months. Smoking. Olivia something. She’s gone now, I imagine?”
Kate didn’t realize the question was directed at her until she saw Genevieve gaze up from her glass and peer at her with glassy hazel eyes. “Oh, yes. She’s gone.”
“And who’s taken her place?” Genevieve asked, sounding rather bored. “Charles tells me Alexei has a new woman. Did you know this, Olivia?”
Kate shrugged. “I saw very little of her. Hardly knew her.”
“Jamie doesn’t tell me anything about his friends’ personal affairs,” May pouted. “And I so enjoy knowing. It’s better than the divorce columns in The Sun.”
Katherine watched another woman enter, recognizing her as Nika Markowitz—River’s mother and fellow courtesan-friend of May and Genevieve. She reminded Kate of a pretty little cat, haughtily preening her paws and sticking up her nose at the idea of a newcomer joining the circle. The tall Polish beauty slid over and lit up a cigarette.
“Anyway, let’s talk about your friend Julia,” May said, clutching both of Kate’s hands. “Darling, tell me about how she’s getting on with Muggs. Does she say if he is as good a lover as his father and uncle?”
“How in God’s name could she know that, May!” Genevieve gasped in a mock scandal. “Not all of us have been in Colm and Cian Tracey’s beds.”
May continued staring at Kate but spoke to Genevieve. “And neither have I, but don’t tell me you haven’t heard the stories. Julia hasn’t mentioned one thing about Muggs Tracey’s—”
“Spare the girl, mon Dieu,” Genevieve all but hastily shrieked, gripping May’s wrist once again in warning. “Katherine is a nice girl. She takes my granddaughters to the park on weekends. Charles told me so.”
Nika blew out a ring of smoke and draped herself beside Genevieve, reaching out to trace the patterns on the dress Kate borrowed from Leah. “Lovely,” was all she said, with a trace of an Eastern European accent lost after so many years in America.
May took Kate’s hands in hers and held them close. “Nothing surprises me anymore, Katherine, nothing. Please, tell me everything about yourself. You seem like a promising, honest girl. Where do you work? Has my Jamie treated you nicely? His father was a gentleman but was gone too soon to pass on proper etiquette.”
“Cards?” Kate smirked, slightly unsure. “He’s gentle. He hasn’t led me astray yet. Everything he says is so…honest. Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s sarcasm.”
May laughed as if it were a compliment and then paused to breathe. “Yes, how funny. A charming boy, he is.” She rubbed her hands together as if keeping warm. “His friends are good-natured, too, in their hearts. I know it—even Muggs. Colm has done a horrible job of keeping him tame. Do you know him?”
Kate’s eyebrows raised at the way May’s neckline seemed to plunge further the more she leaned forward. “Yes, I’ve known Muggs for a long time.”
“No, no, I mean Colm.”
“Oh. Not really, no. I haven’t had the displeasure. Though I’ve seen him around.”
“Isn’t he a handsome creature?”
“Is he?” Kate asked, her eyes darting between the three women. “I’ve never found him so.”
“No?” May cried, raising her hands. “Why, heavens, where’s your sense of beauty? Such a fine tall, dark, dashing gentlemanly man, with such arms and hands, and—” she trailed off as Genevieve cleared her throat. “Well, now, you are strange.”
“I’ve been told I’m blunt,” Kate replied, laying aside her shawl. “My opinion of Colm Tracey is of very little importance to him and everyone else, I’m sure. I don’t regret saying what I think of him, and I don’t think anyone shall change my opinion of him either.”
Genevieve smiled a bit at Kate. “Here, here. But he is a wonderful man, yes?”
“I guess some find him, so I’ll give you that,” Kate said.
“And he charges into blazes with his company like Hades himself, does he not?” Genevieve furthered.
“Maybe, but I’ve never seen him on the job,” the girl answered.
“Never!” May interposed. “Oh, well! There you are. How could you possibly form an opinion on a man like Colm when you’ve never seen him in such a thrilling escapade?”
Kate was anxious to change the subject, so she made no further remark. Nika seemed to pick up on it.
“Is that corset uncomfortable to wear?” The Polish beauty asked.
“Sort of,” Kate admitted with a bitter sigh.
“But it looks so elegant,” Genevieve hummed, adjusting her bodice. “Not hot and itchy like mine.”
“I borrowed it from Leah.”
“Yes, I dare say you have,” May giggled. She stood rather wobbly on her dainty feet and pulled Genevieve up. Nika slithered between the two, accepting May's arm around her shoulder. “Come on, Katherine. What’s say we make the men go wild with our dancing downstairs?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Kate said with a wave. “I’m afraid I have two left feet.”
“Hm, I think no,” Nika purred, pulling a flask from her dress and handing it to Kate. “You need courage.”
“I’m going to need a lot more than that, River’s mom,” Kate said with a slow smile as the women laughed. “Might I suggest a keg with a straw?”
As they neared the stairs, they met Spot Conlon on his way up, looking out of breath with a glazed look in his eyes. One glance and Kate knew him for intoxicated.
“Katherine—” Spot stopped dead halfway down, his gaze skimming once, twice. “How did— I mean—well, you look— I mean, hell.”
Genevieve rolled her eyes as May offered her hand for Spot to take. “Help me down the stairs, will you, Spot? I do believe I’ll topple down them in my state.”
“Certainly, May,” Spot agreed, linking his arm with hers as the group descended. He turned to Kate. “Has anyone seen you like this yet?”
“Like what?”
“Like…in a Kabo corset.”
Kate quirked her brow and looked down at her bodice. “Is that what it is?”
“Doesn’t matter. I'll be fending off every Duster in the room.”
“Don’t worry. I can be ugly.”
Spot gave her a more worried look from his arsenal of usually concerned looks. “The trouble is you're not. I suppose Leah won the battle of getting you in such a dress.”
“Well, I intend to win the war by getting out of it,” Kate asked, giving him a side-smirk and then erasing it as quickly as it appeared. “Shall I take it off now or later?”
“Don’t.” Spot meant it, releasing May’s arm once they reached the bottom of the stairs. “You’re keen to have half the eyes in the room on you in about ten seconds, Katherine. I only hope you intend to be smart with that power.”
“Eventually. For now, Tom?” Kate shrugged, plucking the tumbler of whiskey from Spot’s hand and taking a sip. "For now, I intend to get roaringly drunk on it.”
Chapter 23: Truth
Summary:
Colm looked down at his toddler son cautiously, a mixture of exhaustion and curiosity in his bottle-green eyes. Mustering a dimpled half-grin that Jesse could read wasn’t genuine in an instant. Muggs ran into Colm’s legs, knocking himself to the floor, giggling like it was the funniest trick in the world.
Colm quirked an eyebrow, glancing over at Valeriya, who watched from the kitchen with a weary expression.
Muggs caught his breath, still lying on the floor, looking up at his father with identical green sparkling eyes. “Catch us!”
Colm hesitated momentarily, then stepped over his littlest son with his enormous boots, proceeding to the little hook on the wall to hang his coat.
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
April 1884
Brooklyn, NY
“Как тебя зовут, мой дорогой мальчик?" Valeriya scrubbed the side of the little boy’s scalp, soaping and lathering her four-and-a-half-year-old’s dark mop until it raked like silk through her fingers.
“Мэтью,” Muggs replied, chewing on the edge of one of the washrags that had fallen into the basin. The soap suds stuck to his baby-soft skin like little pieces of cloud.
“Да, очень хорошо,” Valeriya said with a smile, switching to English. “And who am I?”
“Mama.” Muggs’ high-pitched voice was once again silenced by the cloth he chewed on, ingesting the soapy water.
“No, no, we don’t eat that.” Valeriya gently peeled the rag away, tsking and shaking her head as she wrang it out. “Bad for you, Matvei.” She poured another jug of warm water over his sudsy hair, making the little boy squeeze his eyes shut and cough. “Now, answer me this. Where is your daddy?”
Muggs kept his eyes closed as she scrubbed behind his ears. “Daddy’s with the fire engine and the big hose.”
“Really?”
“He’s gone to help the people.”
“Very good.”
“When does he come back?”
Valeriya watched him pat the bubbles in the water. She smoothed back his dark hair and then grabbed the comb from her apron pocket, using it to tame his messy locks. “Soon. Be very good for your daddy. He works hard to keep us fed.” She shrieked as Muggs splashed sudsy bath water at her, spraying her face and apron. “Дорогая, не разбрызгивай воду повсюду. Мы просто купаемся.”
Muggs giggled. “But it’s fun, Mama!”
“He’s making a mess.” Ten-year-old Jesse rolled his eyes, lying on his stomach by the hearth, flipping the pages of an old dime novel. “Can’t you get him to stop?”
Valeriya sighed, wiping up the spilled water with her apron, hearing her husband Colm’s tone in her eldest son’s voice. It boiled her blood. “Jesse, маленький, пусть веселится,” she set her now drenched apron aside, rolling up her sleeves once again to finish scrubbing Muggs’ back. “You were his age once, remember?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t make a mess like that,” Jesse sighed. “And why’s he just now getting a bath? It’s already late.”
“We have time, dear. I want Matvei to clean for bed, too.”
Muggs giggled, flailing his little arms and splashing the room-temperature water again. “Jesse, look!” He desperately tried to get his brother’s attention, kicking around in the basin. “Big splash!”
“Matty, come on!” Jesse rolled over and sat up. “I’m trying to read here.”
Valeriya finished combing Muggs’ wet hair. “Boys, darlings, enough. Jesse, clear the table, please.”
Grumbling, the older boy stood and set the dime novel on the sofa. “Fine,” he muttered, reaching for Grandmother Tracey’s old set of plates, four laid out on the table. Only three had been used. “He’s a little terror, Ma. Why’d you have to give me a brother?”
“He’s just a baby, Nikolai,” she said, using his first name. She hoisted the little boy out of the basin and wrapped him in an old towel. “He just wants to have fun.”
“Fun!” Muggs tried to explain, his baby teeth chattering as his mother dried him off with the towel.
Rolling his eyes once more, Jesse glared down at his father’s untouched place at the table. “Yeah, yeah. Fun.” He continued picking up plates around the small table. “Ma, are Mr. and Mrs. Conlon coming over again?”
Valeriya forced a smile. “Yes, they might visit after Mr. Conlon’s shift. It’s good to share a drink.”
“Alright. But he better not yell at Mrs. Conlon again.”
“You know he does not mean it, дорогой,” his mother gave a strained laugh. “Make sure the forks are cleaned properly.”
Muggs tore past Jesse, running around the flat in only his little trousers. “Come catch me, Jesse! Catch me!”
“Slow down, you little hurricane!”
“Matvei, be careful!” Valeriya called, keeping her back turned to the noise, burning her fingers on the still-cooling oven. “No running inside!”
Jesse caught up to Muggs, scooping him up while the little boy kicked his legs frantically as if attempting to run mid-air. “Gotcha! You ain’t too fast.”
“Again, Jesse, again!”
Valeriya glanced at the two out of the corner of her eye, wrapping her burnt fingers in a cold rag. “Jesse, I asked you to help me. This is not the time for playing. I can’t do everything on my own.”
Jesse set Muggs down, his smile dropping almost instantaneously.
“Catch me!” Muggs squealed again, beginning to run around, looking back expectantly at his brother. He slowed down, catching his breath. “Catch me?”
“No, Matt,” Jesse mumbled, stalking off to the little bedroom he shared with his brother and rummaging through a trunk until he found Muggs’ pajamas, which were once his own. A set Muggs was quickly outgrowing. “Here, arms up.” Muggs obeyed his brother, whimpering as Jesse roughly tugged the shirt over his head.
“And where is your father?” Jesse could hear Valeriya continue from the kitchen. “Why isn’t he home yet? He missed supper. Always late. Always some excuse.”
As if on cue, the door rattled open. Colm strolled through the threshold, his sturdy boots thudding against the wooden floor. Muggs charged at him with uncontainable energy, breaking free from Jesse’s grip.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
Colm looked down at his toddler son cautiously, a mixture of exhaustion and curiosity in his bottle-green eyes. Mustering a dimpled half-grin that Jesse could read wasn’t genuine in an instant. Muggs ran into Colm’s legs, knocking himself to the floor, giggling like it was the funniest trick in the world.
Colm quirked an eyebrow, glancing over at Valeriya, who watched from the kitchen with a weary expression.
Muggs caught his breath, still lying on the floor, looking up at his father with identical green sparkling eyes. “Catch us!”
Colm hesitated momentarily, then stepped over his littlest son with his enormous boots, proceeding to the little hook on the wall to hang his coat. The scent of smoke clung to him. Valeriya returned to the stove, feeling her heart race as his footsteps approached her from behind. He never failed to give her butterflies in her stomach, as if they were still teenagers. A dark, quiet part of her wondered why he’d even chosen her from all the others he could’ve had.
“Missed you,” he mumbled from high above her, encircling his arms around her ribcage, squeezing, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Missed you, too, love,” she uttered softly, her eyes locked on her work. “Did you eat?”
“I did, but I could go for more.”
His calloused hands found her waist, and he planted another kiss on the side of her head. Then another one. Then once more to her cheek. Forceful, urgent. He whispered something in her ear, making her roll her eyes and beam.
Jesse watched the two of them from the other side of the kitchen, his gaze lingering on how his mother’s anger dissipated when Colm spun her around and brushed the loose, damp hair off her face, meeting his lips with hers.
“Mm,” Valeriya gently pushed against Colm, urging him to break the kiss, catching her breath and bearings. “Colm, please. The boys.”
“They don’t care,” Colm scoffed, following Valeriya’s gaze to Jesse’s worried expression. “Do you, kid? You remember what I told you.”
Valeriya gave a puzzled look Colm’s way.
Jesse felt a pull on his arm, finding Muggs on the other side, clinging to him like a little monkey. An invitation to play. He jumped and smiled as he looked up at the older boy.
“Stop it, Matt!” Jesse wrenched his arm away hard, accidentally hitting Muggs in the forehead with his knuckles simultaneously.
“Ouch,” Muggs rubbed his forehead, looking up at Jesse in surprise at the hit. He looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed it, finding his parents distracted and deciding it wasn’t worth it to cry. “You…you bumped me.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Jesse said hastily, rubbing the spot quickly. “All better.”
Muggs frowned, sticking out his lower lip in a pout, not accepting the weak apology. “Next time, when I grow up…I’ll beat you.”
Colm entered the small room off the kitchen he shared with Valeriya, the worn door creaking softly as it closed behind him. He moved to the dresser, methodically beginning to shed the layers of work clothes. He had a familiar smell, one that Muggs had come to associate with his father—something natural and earthy, warm and smokey. Muggs peeked into the room, as silent as a bit of bird, his eyes wide at the sight of Colm’s discarded, large boots on the floor.
“What are you doing, Daddy?”
Colm, absorbed in his routine, glanced at Muggs, his demeanor reserved and focused. He stripped off his undershirt, moving to a bowl and pitcher of water on a stand. “Just washing up, kid. Nothing exciting.”
Muggs stepped further into the room, his small frame observing Colm’s every move as if memorizing the routine. He watched his father count a few bills from his pocket.
“What’s that?”
Colm sighed and finished counting the money, stowing it away beneath the mattress.
“It’s money, Matthew. For things we need.”
“Money?” Muggs’ eyes widened to saucers. “Can I have some?”
Colm’s lips twitched beneath his mustache. “Not now, kid. It’s for grown-up stuff. But don’t worry, I got everything we need.”
Muggs continued staring at his father in fascination and confusion. “Okay, Daddy. You got everything?”
“That’s right. Now, get in bed. It’s late.”
“Mama sleeps with us in our room,” Muggs insisted on his way out, shooting Colm a determined look. “’ A-case, I have a night-bear.”
“That’s a nightmare,” Colm corrected him, scrunching his eyebrows. “And like hell she is. Your ma’s sleeping in here with me.”
“No, she isn’t,” Muggs called from outside the room.
“Yeah, she is.”
Muggs frowned, pouting again. “No! She isn’t!”
“Is, too.” Colm threw water over his face and dabbed at it with a cloth. He looked at his son with a bemused expression. “Your ma has to sleep with me. She likes it better that way.”
Muggs crossed his little arms. “Mama likes me and Jesse. She’s my mama.”
“Well, she’s my wife.”
The door opened wider behind Muggs, revealing the woman looking worn out as she tossed her apron onto the floor and pulled her nightgown off the back of a chair.
“What is going on in here?” She asked, resting a dainty hand on Muggs’ head.
“Daddy says you’re sleeping with him!” Muggs whined, pointing defiantly at Colm.
With a cheeky smirk, Colm shrugged, going back to washing up. “Because you are.”
Valeriya sighed, shaking her head and stroking Muggs’ hair. “No more yelling. I will put you to bed, Matvei, and then when you are asleep, I will go to bed, yes?”
Muggs reluctantly nodded, and Valeriya scooped him up, cradling him in her arms. “Come on, little cub. It’s bedtime.”
As she carried Muggs out of the bedroom, she shot Colm a look, which he ignored.
“Time for bed, my little stars,” Valeriya said, carrying Muggs to the small room he shared with Jesse. “Your daddy is exhausted and wants to sleep, so we must be quiet.”
Jesse shifted under the worn-out blankets, a small smile playing on his lips as he finished reading his dime novel by soft lamp light.
“Story,” Muggs begged as his mother knelt beside his bed, smoothing back his tousled hair.
“Alright, but only a quick one tonight.”
She reached for a tattered book on the small wooden shelf above Jesse’s bed, filled with tales of far-off lands and magical creatures. A book that had been a gift to Jesse from Colm’s parents. Muggs’ eyes lit up in anticipation.
“I want the dragon one, Mama,” Muggs suggested, taking the book himself and swiping the pages until he found the right pictures. “Because I love it.”
Jesse nodded. “No, that one always gives you nightmares, then you end up sleeping in my bed. And you kick me in your sleep.”
Muggs looked sheepishly between his brother and the book in his hands. “No, I don’t.”
”Fine, but if you get scared after this, you can’t sleep in my bed.”
“Jesse, I’m not scared!” Muggs protested, leaning forward to glare at his brother.
Valeriya took the book back from Muggs, her accent weaving a melodic quality into the words as she narrated the beloved story almost by the memory of a brave little dragon who went on a dangerous mission. Jesse and Muggs listened, having heard the story before, their imaginations ignited by their mother’s storytelling, the way she’d add new twists and turns to the old tale.
Jesse occasionally glanced at Muggs, who struggled to keep his eyes open.
When it was over, Valeriya tucked the boys in, kissing their foreheads.
“Goodnight, Ma,” Jesse whispered, smiling as she tapped his nose.
Muggs yawned and settled under the blankets only after Valeriya took the book away from him and stored it on the shelf. “Night-night.”
“Sleep well, my little stars. I will see you in the morning.” She could already hear Colm calling her. “I love you.”
Muggs didn’t wait for her to close the door before he got up from his bed, slid down the mattress, and then scampered over to Jesse’s bed and climbed in after a moment of struggle.
Despite having more room behind him, she watched Muggs settle before Jesse and snuggle against his chest, finally closing his eyes. Jesse looked down at him and then at his mother in exasperation.
She mouthed a quiet ‘thank you’ to Jesse, closed the door, darkening the room, and went to him.
They had fallen into the same routine they’d established since Jesse was born. Colm fucked her at night, engaged her in talk about politics and his work during meals, and otherwise avoided asking Valeriya about her own life. Every morning, she woke up alone, no matter how long Colm had kept her up the night before.
The previous morning, she’d awakened with a cramp in her belly. When she’d sat up, a violent wave of nausea hit her. She hurried into the hallway privy and vomited what little she had in her stomach, gasping for breath and feeling dizzy.
Suspicion gradually worked its way into her mind. Her menstruation was overdue for at least a week. But then again, her cycles had been somewhat volatile since she’d given birth to Jesse at fifteen, so she hadn’t paid it much heed.
She didn’t think she could be pregnant. Instead, she slowly straightened and walked toward the washbasin to rinse her face and mouth. Pregnancy would, of course, be the logical explanation. She and Colm had been sleeping together for months without protection since her youngest son’s fifth birthday last February.
When Valeriya was certain her dizziness had passed, she bathed before dressing in the lighter of her skirts and a shirtwaist, pulled her hair into a bun, and made her way to the kitchen, determined to get answers.
Dom Conlon wasn’t home when Valeriya stopped by Nellie Conlon’s flat. Luckily. There were no visible bruises on Nellie’s body, and Valeriya hoped it was because Dom was treating her better and not because he made sure to hide them better since Nellie had spent the night in the Tracey flat on several occasions.
“Are you alright?” Valeriya asked as a way of greeting.
Nellie nodded, absently holding her sleeping little boy, Thomas Conlon. “Dom has been in good spirits lately.” She led Valeriya into the flat. “I’m so glad to see you. But don’t you have to work?”
“I have plenty of sewing but needed a free morning to savor.”
“Has something happened? Is one of the boys sick?”
Valeriya shook her head and rested a hand on her belly.
Nellie’s eyes grew wide. “You’re pregnant? Oh my. Does Colm suspect so?”
Valeriya shook her head. “I want to discuss it with you before I tell him.”
“Sure. I think he’d only be disappointed if it weren’t true,” Nellie said, reaching out to feel Valeriya’s stomach for herself. “Have you been sick in the morning?”
Valeriya nodded, nerves fluttering in her chest. “I think I might be pregnant.”
Nellie jumped up and hugged Valeriya tightly. “That’s wonderful news! I’m so happy for you! Colm will be so proud when he finds out. He’s been wanting another boy, and you might give him one. Will you tell him today?”
Valeriya considered those words. “I think I should see a doctor first to be sure. As you said, I should know before I tell him.”
The other reason was that she needed time to get used to the idea. She’d always wanted a big family, and she and Colm hadn’t taken countermeasures in a while, but now that she knew she would be having a baby in less than a year, she was hit with nerves.
“I couldn’t keep it a secret,” Nellie admitted. “Especially since Dom is so desperate for me not to get pregnant again. You know he doesn’t like kids much. Not after Thomas.”
“Maybe he’ll change his mind, and you could have another. Then we could each have three.”
Nellie smiled sadly. “Go on.”
“I was wondering,” Valeriya said, with a nervous laugh, “if you knew of any women…mid-wives that might help me.”
Nellie’s eyes lit up. “I certainly do. Ms. Mary O’Connell. She’s a family friend. I can put you in touch if you’d like.”
“I would like, yes. Very much so.”
Nellie stood and fetched pen and paper. “I’ve got her address memorized. It would be best if you told her I sent it to you. She gets many appointments, but if you tell her you’re my friend, you won’t have to wait long.”
***
That evening, when Valeriya left Jesse and Muggs’ bedroom to finish cleaning the kitchen, the truth was on her tongue. She was still nauseous and didn’t want to look at the leftovers as she scraped them into a small bin for disposal. Her glass of vodka stayed untouched, and she could only manage a few gulps of water.
Colm peered at her from where he sat at the table with his newspaper, taking sparing sips of his glass of vodka. “What’s wrong with you? Jesse said you didn’t eat much tonight.”
“I don’t feel well. Perhaps I got sick.”
Colm’s eyebrows creased. “You want me to make you some tea? My ma’s recipe always cured me.”
Valeriya couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, but I will just go to bed.” She stretched and had to grip the edge of the kitchen table for stability as a wave of dizziness gripped her.
Colm was on his feet and beside her immediately with a steady hand. “V, should I send for a doctor?”
Valeriya shook her head, then regretted the movement. “No. I’ll feel better once I lie down.”
Colm didn’t leave her side as he led her to their bedroom, his hand resting on her hip.
Valeriya changed into her nightgown and undid her hair from its updo as Colm watched her. Then she slipped under the blankets.
“Do you want me to join you?” he asked.
Valeriya hesitated. “C, I don’t think I’m well enough for sex.”
Colm perched on the edge of the bed. “Valeriya, that ain’t what I meant. I can control myself, you know.”
“I just figured…” Valeriya trailed off. “You usually like to…before sleep.”
Colm exhaled, then shook his head. “Would you like me to sit until you fall asleep?”
Valeriya didn’t want to look needy, but even more than that, she wanted him to stay with her. His baby was growing in her body, and if this Mary O’Connell confirmed her feelings, she’d tell him.
“I don’t want to keep you away from your paper.”
Colm sat back. Valeriya moved closer to him and rested her head on his stomach. When his fingers started massaging her scalp, her eyes fluttered shut. Maybe a baby would bring them closer together. It had worked when they’d had their boys.
Chapter 24: Math
Summary:
"Mr. Tracey, I believe this belongs to you," Mr. Dellinger said, offering a folded note with a friendly smile.
Looking somewhat surprised, Muggs took the note from Mr. Dellinger's wrinkled hands. He examined it briefly and noted the name 'Matthew Tracey' on the front. A frown crept onto his face, and he gruffly thanked Mr. Dellinger before slipping away.
Mr. Dellinger nodded warmly and then patted Alexei's arm. "Goodnight, Mr. Morozov. Study hard. Math exam in two days, you know."
Muggs found a secluded spot in the corridor next to the darkened window, showing faint slithers of the winter night sky. Away from prying eyes, he unfolded the note from Julia Hawthorne.
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
December 1897
Randall's Island, NY
Jack saw how the boys in the upper wards jumped to attention at Dr. Clayton’s footsteps. It told Jack that they, too, feared him. His breath smelled of coffee. There was nothing unusual in his appearance: an expensive, slightly dandy checked suit of the kind that he fancied. The spectacles were too small for his tough, square head like the eyes behind them. His broad mustache bristled below a wide nose. His visage was excessively odd, nonetheless.
Jack felt a little foolish, struggling after spending so many hours passively in Dr. Fuller’s company at Bellevue. Dr. Clayton of Randall’s Island was grim-faced. He told the boys they would be fed twice a day. How that happened was entirely up to them. He hoped they would take the sensible course for their sake, but it made no difference to him. Now, which was it to be?
The infamous Doctor Clayton, Jack’s heard the boys whisper.
Dr. Clayton’s face showed a dismissal that undercut the satisfaction of provoking him. “Prepare the mixture,” Dr. Clayton said to a matron. “Three eggs in a pint and a half of sweetened milk.”
Doctor Clayton, the hired brute and torturer of children.
“If you resist, I shall have you restrained,” Dr. Clayton said to Alexei one evening, cornering him in the canteen with two other orderlies.
Alexei hadn’t eaten supper in a week. He only curses at the doctor in venomous Russian, asking for opium.
“You will speak English!”
This had to be their pattern—the shouting match. The two orderlies took Alexei away, dragging him to a lonely room in the east wing and holding him down while Dr. Clayton put on his long oilcloth apron. The greasing of the rubber tube. Alexei’s frantic, futile efforts to resist.
Alexei came back to the ward soaked with sweat, dried vomit on his uniform, his eyes reddened, his nasal passage bloody. Snyder ordered the force-feedings two weeks into Alexei’s hunger strike.
Cohen had been taken for a beating with the cats that same evening. He’d broken a chair over a table during an outburst in the classroom, furious at the humiliation inflicted upon him for not knowing the Lord’s Prayer. After the whipping, Jack caught a glimpse of Cohen’s trembling long legs as he stumbled along, being pulled by both his limp arms. The two guards’ merciless pace seemed deliberate.
“She fuckin’ licked my wounds,” Jack overhead Cohen telling Muggs Tracey, who was mulling over his arithmetic, sitting a row behind Jack in the schoolroom. “Like a dog.”
Muggs ducked his head and continued scribbling sums on the paper, speed-like and with precision, his left hand never resting as he listened. “This is meant to be hard? I can do this in my sleep.”
“Muggs, did you hear me?” Cohen asked, brave enough to nudge to the madman, who never stopped his work.
“Trigonometry’s a damn cakewalk.”
“Sweat and blood.”
Green eyes flitted from the paper of chicken-scratch work to the equation written on the front blackboard. “Feels good,” Muggs mumbled, dismissing the look of disgust in Cohen’s eyes. “That was your first time gettin’ catted, weren’t it?”
“So, you’re tellin’ me she’s licked your back clean, too, after a lashing.” Cohen didn’t need a reply to know it was true. He watched Muggs’ lips give the faintest of frowns, tongue running over his teeth, from canine to canine, as it always did during deliberation. “Jesus Christ, Muggs, that’s sick. Real sick, you know that?”
“Drink laudanum. She’s done it to half the fellas. Don’t seem to bother them none.”
“Well, it should bother them. It should bother you.”
“It won’t.”
“She’s tasted you, Tracey.”
“I’ve tasted her.” Muggs paused his solving and eyed his comrade. He spread two bony fingers and held them before his chapped lips, letting his snake-like tongue cut between them in a long, obscene drag.
Cohen’s shudder only resurrected a dimpled smirk from the black-haired devil and a tiny, wicked chuckle. "That sure as hell ain't the same thing."
Muggs continued the gesture to annoy Cohen further.
Alexei caught Muggs’ wrist, forcing it down as the old teacher approached, eyeing the progress on their papers and slates.
Mr. Dellinger was eighty-three and near deaf in both ears. He grinned at the boys’ work and offered quiet remarks of praise. When he noticed Alexei’s half-attempted math, he indicated the boy kept at it with a singular tap to the slate with his ruler and strolled on.
“You can have Nell Anderson,” Cohen said, shaking his head incredulously. “There’s something downright wrong with that woman.”
“Who is it you want, then, Cohen?” Rails asked from Cohen’s left, having finished his arithmetic, now reclining in his chair, balancing on its two wooden legs. His eyes scanned the schoolroom, landing on portraits of stern benefactors on the front wall. “Mrs. Ada Summerfield,” he pointed to a daguerreotype of a homely woman in a white bonnet. “Mrs. Betty Shaw,” a portrait of a sour-faced widow, “or Sister Constance,” a more recent photograph of an attractive young Swedish nun who’d donated sizeable funds to the island as part of her charity to educate the city’s orphans. “You can choose one to take as your wife, one to fuck as your mistress, and one to push in front of a train.”
Muggs’ quiet laugh sent shivers down Jack’s spine.
“That’s easy,” Muggs sniffed at Rails, while Atlas muttered, “That’s horrible.”
“Me, I’d shove that old bat Summerfield down a mineshaft,” Alexei volunteered without hesitation. “On that last visit, she's the one who called me a ‘skinny, foul-mouthed Cossack with filthy habits who ought to be chained up in a room with no more than a Bible.'”
Rails smirked again. “Aw, I wouldn’t be so quick to off her, Lex. Sounds to me like she wanted your opium pipe in her mouth.”
Alexei rolled his eyes, ignoring the muffled laughter from Muggs and Rails alike.
“I’d marry Mrs. Shaw,” Cohen confessed with a shrug. “Her husband left her a fortune.”
Atlas grimaced like he was chewing a wasp. “Aaron, she’s like sixty.”
“It’s a game, Giannotti.”
Alexei twirled his pencil between his fingers, looking blankly at his unsolved equations. “I’d sell my soul to fuck Sister Constance. She can proselytize to me all night.”
“Mm, Sister Constance, tell me how bad I am,” Rails all but moaned in imitation of Alexei’s Russian accent, quirking an eyebrow at Alexei in intrigue, rhythmically thrusting his hips in his chair in mock ecstasy. “Please, pray all over me.”
Atlas frowned as the others broke into hushed laughter, fingering the saint medal around his neck. Rails caught Atlas’ uncomfortable flinch, leveling his glare at the quiet, deeply religious boy.
“What?”
“It’s sinful to talk like that about a nun.”
“Atlas, if you never sin, then Jesus died for nothin’.”
“But she’s a nun—”
Alexei sighed, leaning back in his chair and stealing Muggs’ arithmetic slate to copy his answers. “Relax, chasin’ nuns is a Lion Valentino sin, not mine. He’s the catholic one, after all, like you.”
Lion looked over, narrowing his eyes in suspicion upon hearing his name. “What was that?”
“You fuck sisters,” Muggs said languidly as he crossed his arms, aiming a faux-disgusted look at the boy.
“Whose sisters? No, I haven’t.” He scanned the faces of Muggs, Alexei, Cohen, and Rails. “Unless are you talking about the Hillman sisters? Because I swear I didn’t know they were twins—”
“No, sisters. Nuns,” Rails interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The veiled types what never open their legs.”
“Oh.” A look of realization passed Lion’s face as Cards snickered from beside him. “That was one time.”
“It got you in here, didn’t it?”
Atlas’ mouth dropped open in horror. “What? You did not.”
Lion rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and you know what? I’d do it again, just for you, Giannotti.” He turned all the way around in his chair. “I bent her over that fence outside the churchyard. She had a cave so tight I thought I’d break off inside her—”
Atlas crossed himself as Muggs threw his head back and laughed like a jackal.
Grim widened his eyes but said nothing as he stared down at his slate, etching sums diligently with his chalk.
“For fuck’s sake,” Tide mumbled, shifting around beside Jack, raking a hand over his tired face.
“Mr. Tracey,” old Mr. Dellinger squeaked, returning to the front of the classroom with a hobbled gait, “please come up here and solve problem number one. Mr. Maltese, problem number two. Mr. Sullivan, problem number three. And Mr. Krause, number four, if you please. I want to see all your hard work, gentlemen. No shortcuts, now.” He looked to the others in their seats. “The rest of you may work in pairs to check their findings.”
Jack shakily picked up his slate and brought it with him, following Grim and Doc to the large, daunting blackboard at the front of the room. Mr. Dellinger sat at his desk, smiling encouragingly at Jack as he hesitated, chalk in hand.
Muggs dug his shoulder into Grim’s as he sauntered ahead, grabbing a broken piece of chalk off Calico’s desk. Grim didn’t even flinch.
“What was that for, Muggs?” Grim asked evenly, lining up in front of his assigned equation. He looked to his left, watching Muggs take his respective place likewise.
Muggs didn’t answer.
Taking it in stride, Grim turned his attention to his work, copying what he’d written on his slate. “How’s Colleen?”
Jack watched Muggs’ jaw clench at the mention of his sister out of Grim’s mouth. He shot Grim a sharp, sidelong glance, his eyes narrowing. The air between them crackled as Grim continued to work on the equation.
"She's doin' fine," Muggs finally grunted, his voice low and gruff. "Not that it's any of your business, Krause."
Grim raised his eyebrows but didn't press further. Instead, he concentrated on the intricate problem, chalk squeaking against the blackboard. Jack, caught between them, cautiously focused on his problem.
The other boys in the classroom were engaged in hushed conversation. Pairs huddled together to compare notes and solutions. The dim light cast long shadows on the walls. Meanwhile, Doc diligently worked alone, his sharp eyes darting between his slate and the blackboard, occasionally glancing at Grim and Muggs as if assessing the unspoken tension.
As Grim finished his calculations, he stepped back, allowing Muggs to take his turn at the blackboard. Muggs shot one last glance at Grim before beginning to write, his movements deliberate and precise. The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by chalk scratching and the occasional creaking of wooden desks.
Jack couldn't help but feel a million miles away.
Old Mr. Dellinger, seemingly oblivious, continued to watch with a contented smile from his desk, pleased that his pupils were, at least momentarily, engaged in some intellectual pursuit.
Soon, the blackboard bore the intricate web of trigonometric functions as Muggs solved his assigned problem. His movements were deliberate, and how he manipulated symbols betrayed a mathematical prowess that transcended the space. The subtle dance of angles and ratios on the blackboard seemed almost effortless in his capable hands.
While struggling with his mathematical demons, Jack observed Grim and Muggs' expertise with awe and frustration. The expressions on his slate seemed like an indecipherable code, a language he couldn't grasp. The gap between the abilities of Muggs, Grim, and himself felt insurmountable.
Meanwhile, Doc quietly worked. His writing was concise and careful, reflecting a mind operating in a pure abstraction realm. He finished first, revealing his solution, then returned to his desk.
"Mind if I give Jack a hand, Mr. Dellinger?" Tide asked, his tone polite yet brimming with far more confidence than Jack could ever muster in such a scenario.
"Of course, Mr. McGurk! Show us what you've got," the elderly teacher responded, gesturing toward the unfinished problem before Jack. "Remember, Jack, the law of the hypotenuse!"
Tide sidled up to Jack with a knowing smirk. "Need a hand, mate?" he offered, glancing at the equation.
Jack, grateful for the assistance, nodded eagerly. "Yeah, I'm lost here."
Tide picked up the chalk, his movements deft as he began to solve. Finishing, he stepped back, clapping Jack on the shoulder, creating a cloud of chalk powder. "There you go. Nothing to it, right?"
Mr. Dellinger scrutinized each equation with a practiced eye, evaluating the accuracy. "Let's see what we have here," he murmured, adjusting his glasses. "Mr. Tracey, excellent work on problem number one. Very well done."
Muggs didn't respond, simply dropping back down into his desk. Mr. Dellinger continued down the line, praising the solutions of Grim, Doc, and Tide, adding that Jack could, too, achieve higher marks if he only practiced.
As he went on to dissect more equations with scholarly enthusiasm, a mix of disinterest and restlessness fell over the room, abuzz with whispers.
Muggs leaned back in his chair, eyeing Jack with a smug expression. "Is McGurk gonna kiss you goodnight, too?"
"Mail call, boys!" Mr. Whalen barked from the doorway, interrupting Mr. Dellinger's lecture. He held a stack of envelopes, tapping them against the blackboard. "Let's see who's got correspondence this evening."
He began the ritual, calling out names individually and holding up letters for all to see. As he ripped open each envelope with a file, he took the liberty of reading them aloud, much to the discomfort of the recipients.
"Sullivan!" Whalen called with a sly grin as he produced the envelope.
Jack, feeling a blend of anxiety and hope, stood cautiously. Mr. Whalen tore it open and started reading, oblivious to the personal nature of the letter.
"Dear Jack," he began, adopting a mockingly sweet tone, "I miss you so much. I wish you could see the horses Medda hired for her new carriage..." Whalen frowned, clearly getting bored with the contents, realizing it was from Jack's sister, Sophie. "Oh, isn't this just adorable?"
Jack's face flushed as Whalen continued to read aloud. The other boys exchanged smirks and stifled laughs.
Next in line was Cards, who received a letter from his mother, May Mahoney. Whalen, not missing a beat, read it with a theatrical flare.
"Monsieur Marquette!" Whalen bellowed, holding up a letter with an elegant French penmanship.
Marquette looked up with a trace of homesickness in his eyes.
As Whalen attempted to read the letter, the complexity of the French language proved too confusing. "What in hell is this gibberish?" he grumbled. "Your little girlfriend could have the decency to write in English." Growing frustrated, he crumpled the letter and tossed it aside, leaving Marquette visibly crestfallen.
Mr. Dellinger clapped with a vague smile, not knowing what had just been said. "Yes, well, thank you, Mr. Whalen. Mail call is always a pleasant surprise for the boys."
Whalen nodded. "Always happy to do my duty."
And with that, Mr. Dellinger dismissed the boys from class. As he tidied up the aftermath, he came across a tiny folded note in the discarded envelope addressed to Charles Marquette. Curiosity getting the better of him, he unfolded the delicate paper and found the words 'Matthew Tracey' written on the front.
"Oh dear," he muttered, realizing the potential error and deciding not to read it.
Quickly as his shaky legs could take him, the old mathematician climbed the stairs to Ward 11. With a gentle knock, he entered the dormitory and scanned the faces of his students, getting ready for the cold showers in the washroom. Spotting Muggs, or Matthew Tracey as the note indicated, he hastily approached him.
When Muggs clapped eyes on Mr. Dellinger, his expression shifted from annoyance to confusion. It was the cast his face took when he was so marinated in opiates that he saw unicorns and mermaids in the streets and was reluctant either to mention or scrutinize them.
"What breed are you, Mr. Dellinger?" Muggs queried, glancing at Alexei's way in humor.
Alexei's jaw came up, newly guilty at Muggs' casual insult toward the older man.
"My guess would be British crustacean," he added thoughtfully.
Searching for the choicest words, Alexei was about to tell Muggs just what breed of cocaine-soused prick he was when Mr. Dellinger started laughing.
"Mr. Tracey, having you in my class is an enormous honor. A fellow natural for the arithmetic."
Muggs' bemusement slid into a half smile as he pulled his feet off his bed and stood over the elderly teacher. "What brings you up here, just in time for a bathing hour?" A slight smirk twitched on his lips. "You wanna see us naked or what?"
"Good God. You might be a bit more respectful," Alexei muttered.
"He doesn't need respect. He needs a tumble with a nice whore to keep him out of our dorm while we're strippin' down and into-"
"Oh, you can't think of it as a chore, my boy," Mr. Dellinger went on, having misheard Muggs entirely, tilting his ear toward the boy. "You have a gifted head for numbers, which is to be celebrated, not looked upon as a burden."
Muggs exchanged a puzzled look with Alexei.
"Mr. Tracey, I believe this belongs to you," Mr. Dellinger said, offering a folded note with a friendly smile.
Looking somewhat surprised, Muggs took the note from Mr. Dellinger's wrinkled hands. He examined it briefly and noted the name 'Matthew Tracey' on the front. A frown crept onto his face, and he gruffly thanked Mr. Dellinger before slipping away.
Mr. Dellinger nodded warmly and then patted Alexei's arm. "Goodnight, Mr. Morozov. Study hard. Math exam in two days, you know."
Muggs found a secluded spot in the corridor next to the darkened window, showing faint slithers of the winter night sky. Away from prying eyes, he unfolded the note from Julia Hawthorne.
Dear Matthew,
I hope this letter finds you in good spirits, or at the very least, in a spirit that doesn't involve throwing punches through a wall or scowling too fiercely. Let me start by saying that addressing this letter to "Muggs' seemed far too unfair for a gentleman of your stature. Your 'mugg' is rather handsome, so I've opted for a more refined "Matthew."
As his eyes scanned the long letter, his heart began pounding in his chest. A subtle warmth spread through him as he traced her handwriting with a shaky finger. He couldn't help but feel a rush of pleasure that she'd taken the time to write to him. The words on the page, laden with curiosity and playful banter, stirred something in him that went beyond the exterior he projected.
He reread passages, savoring the clever turns of phrase and the flirtatious allure woven into her words.
He barely heard Mrs. Nell Anderson's stern command through the dormitory, calling the boys of Ward 11 to wash up before bed. Muggs hastily folded the letter into its tiny form and stuffed it under his mattress, begrudgingly following the directive.
Mrs. Anderson stood firm, leaving no room for debate or disobedience. "Be quick about it, boys, and strip. If I find one speck of filth on you, Snyder will hear of it, and that boy will be punished. You know I hate it when I must play the villainess, but cleanliness is godliness."
The inmates filed into the communal showers. As Muggs passed Mrs. Anderson, the matron's watchful eyes on the rest, she chastised him for being late again.
”How many times have I told you, Mr. Tracey? Being late is just as bad of a habit as being unclean. Now get in at once.”
Bare-chested, he strolled past her with a cheeky grin, undoing his belt and trousers along the way.
"If you want a free show," Muggs mumbled sarcastically, “You should just say so instead of telling Whalen you’re here to ensure we’re properly clean.” He turned and faced her, making a slow, dramatic gesture of tossing off his long johns.
She stared at him momentarily and then blew her whistle, signaling the faucets to be turned on.
With an eye-roll, he joined Alexei and Cohen under the lukewarm water as it heated. It cascaded down, rinsing away the day's residue, the smoke from the chimneys, the grease from the foundry.
"What's got you smilin' like a damn fool?" Cohen asked with an uneasy glint in his blue eyes.
Muggs shook his wet hair, blindly reaching for the soap bar behind Cohen. "I got a letter."
Shouts of banter and jest mingled with running water and the loud drains gurgling it all down, complete with the menacing howl of the wind outside the windows.
Alexei barely scrubbed his blond, greasy hair, staring at Muggs' expression curiously. "From who?"
Muggs shrugged, spitting out water and watching it slide over his tattoos. "Julia."
Cohen, soap suds running down his tanned face, raised an eyebrow. "Julia? Julia Hawthorne? How the hell did that make it past Whalen?"
Muggs nodded. "Don't know, but she addressed it to Matthew Tracey."
Cohen chuckled, water dripping from his nose. "Matthew? Sounds fancy,"
"Well, what did it say?" Alexei asked, smacking Muggs on the arm. "I thought you said she was foolin' around with Grim."
Lathering up the soap, Muggs pondered that comment and let the warm water wash it away. "She is, probably. But it wasn't a love letter. More like...somethin' else," Muggs replied, ducking under the faucet to rinse his burning eyes. "She's clever, that one. Got a way with words."
Mrs. Anderson strolled into the washroom, her sharp grey eyes surveying the scene with a vigilant gaze, her scrutiny evident in the set of her jaw and the furrowed lines on her forehead.
"Boys!" she called out, her voice cutting through the crowds of banter. "This isn't a social hour. You're in here to wash up, not catch up."
Jack, slightly taken aback and mortified by her sudden appearance, moved to cover himself and exchanged glances with Grim, who ignored the interruption.
"You," she pointed at Jack, "I won't tolerate neglect in hygiene in this ward. Lice is the last thing we need. Scrub your hair at once. With soap. And do it right, or I shall do it for you."
Jack obediently moved under the water, quickly lathering his hair with the soap Grim quietly handed him. Ms. Anderson fixed Tide with an impatient glare, her eyes narrowing at the state of the rugged stubble on his face.
"Mr. McGurk," she began coldly, "You're reporting to the island barber tomorrow morning for a proper shave. I won't have you walking around here looking like a wild animal."
Tide bit his tongue and nodded in acknowledgment. "Yes, ma'am."
Seemingly satisfied, she moved down the line, pushing through the steam and damp spray. "You there, Mr. Marquette," she pointed to the Frenchman, "comb your hair tonight. It's a rat's nest. We're not savages here."
Marquette, blushing, quickly turned away from her, exchanging a horrified look with Calico.
"And Mr. Maltese, I will be inspecting your fingernails."
She blew a sharp whistle to signal the end of the washing session. The echoing sound cut through the warm mist, prompting the boys to reluctantly turn off the water and begin filling out, shivering, hurrying to fetch a towel.
"Quickly now, boys! No dilly-dallying," she hummed, her whistle still in hand. She handed the reins to Whalen, who took charge of his whistle.
"You've got thirty minutes," Whalen boomed, casting a strict gaze over the damp-haired inmates in their bedclothes. "It will be time for bed-down when I return."
Muggs broke away to his bed, retrieving Julia's letter from under his mattress and re-reading it in the dim light. Alexei studied him, his curiosity piqued.
"Come on, Muggs, let me have a peek," he whispered, playfully reaching for the letter.
Muggs held it away, shaking his head with a sly grin. "Nah, Lex. This one's just for me, savvy?"
Slightly disappointed but with a knowing smirk, Alexei nodded. "Sure, sure. When you write her back, send her my warmest regards."
"Shut up," Muggs hissed with both amusement and slight uncertainty in his tone. "Elena already wrote to you twice."
"Yes," Alexei said with an embarrassed smile, falling back into bed and staring at the ceiling. "Yes, she did. And Whalen read both those out loud. God, you're lucky he didn't see your letter. Lucky bastard."
Muggs folded the letter, shoving it under his pillow. "I think I would've set myself on fire if Whalen had read it."
Alexei rolled over on his side just as the gas lamps were extinguished and Whalen returned. "Why's that?" he whispered. "This Julia Hawthorne, does she write dirty?"
Muggs shrugged, rolling to face Alexei likewise, taking his time to mull it over. "No. She's just...different."
"Different, how?"
"I mean, she's different than the other skirts I've had." Muggs shook his head. He propped himself up on his muscled forearm. "But there's somethin' about her that's just...fuck, I don't know, Lex."
"You're delightfully specific," Alexei retorted with a scoff. "Are you sure she even wants you to write her back?"
"Yeah," Muggs said, unable to hide the natural, human smile on his lips, not that his friend could see it correctly in the dark. "I think she does."
Chapter 25: Dusk's Disquiet
Summary:
"You would do well to leave before I lose my temper—"
"Stop talking down to me, Grim. I’m not a child."
"Yes, you are!"
"I turn eleven in a few months! The same age you were when you first got catted! No Name said it made you a man!"
"The hell it did! I was a child, much like you are and will be in a few months!" Grim stooped to collect the shattered glass, a rag wrapped around his hand. "You ain’t an adult, Katherine, and you know nothing of love, loss, or my relationship with Natalie."
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
May 1895
Brooklyn, NY
Spot Conlon, still rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, felt a twinge of self-reproach for procuring only a hundred papers that morning as he arrived at the intersection of Montague Street and Muggs Tracey's domain.
Muggs carefully surveyed his surroundings, his gaze drifting from side to side. Aaron Cohen and Alexei Morozov stood on either side of him, a formidable duo. Attuning to his environment, Muggs subtly adjusted his stride upon spotting Spot, the change invisible to the casual observer.
Growing up beside Muggs had its rewards. Spot possessed an innate ability to decipher him, a skill that eluded strangers and himself. Spot could gauge the extent of Muggs' recent cocaine indulgence after just two blinks of his piercing green eyes (plenty, though at least two hours ago). He also discerned the subtle nuances of Muggs' mood (cautious, hedging bets, yet poised for a confrontation if it came his way). Most crucially, Spot saw the purpose behind Muggs' presence (headed for Colm Tracey’s fire station, no doubt, which stood only a five-minute walk from there).
Spot felt no obligation to spare him simply because he knew him.
"Spot!" Muggs thundered down the illuminated street. "What's become of Grim? Good, you can fill me in. I heard from No Name—"
"Knowing you," Spot hissed as he approached, "for my entire existence, I should have anticipated that you wouldn't bother showing your face at Mary's the moment you left, not even for a matter like this."
"Spot—"
"After all the horrible acts you've committed over the years, I shouldn't be surprised that you'd turn your back on a faithful friend who just returned from a flogging and solitary confinement and having his world taken away from him."
Muggs fell silent. It wasn't his usual angry silence, nor was it his brooding quiet. His countenance hung motionless, succumbing only to the pull of gravity. It portrayed Muggs as he was: weary, corrupted, tired of it all, and always seeking another distraction. And that unsettled Spot.
"Fine, Conlon," Muggs declared, his remarkably pristine teeth enunciating each word. "What must I do to make you cease? How can I make you realize your vision is clouded and muddled and extricate yourself from it?"
"If your solution to any problem, especially this one, is to disregard those who cared for you, then I want nothing more to do with you," Spot declared with resolve. “Natalie’s dead. And the baby didn’t come back with Grim. Snyder had the Children’s Aid Society take him away before Grim could even sign a damn document.”
He meant it with unwavering conviction.
"I didn’t know," Muggs voiced cautiously. "But you gotta—"
"Step aside," Spot interjected, dismissive of Muggs' imposing stature and the myriad ways Muggs outshone him, a fact Spot rarely acknowledged.
Muggs yielded, leaving dumbfounded blond associates exchanging glances infused with spine-weakening awe. Spot tilted his face toward the salty breeze, seeking solace in its customary allure. Confronting Muggs was akin to mundane tasks—like bathing or purchasing a cup of small beer. Yet, this encounter left Spot feeling like his skin was fitted improperly, his fingers instinctively clenching into fists. For far lesser provocations, the older boy had landed a punch squarely on Spot's jaw. But this time, he didn’t.
As Kate Moore and Camille Moreau traversed the masts, standing like an impenetrable thicket along the Red Hook waterfront beneath a striped canopy formed by the prows of ships, an insatiable thirst for revelation consumed them. The night prior had cruelly denied them a breakthrough, leaving them uncertain. In the clandestine confines of a backroom, Kate and Camille had delved into a labyrinth of theories, grappling with the enigma that unfolded on Randall's Island just a week prior.
Red Hook, nestled by the ferry terminals, emerged as a waterfront enclave in the southwestern expanse of Brooklyn, caressed by Upper New York Bay. Kate couldn't fathom the allure that drew newsboys to this district. As they arrived, the ferry docks pulsated with many characters, the vibrant morning sun transforming salt residue into animated billows within the unfurled sails. Amidst the daily influx of Manhattan residents into the borough, the distinctive brand of East and Hudson River debauchery made a bold advance. Prostitutes, clad in skirts hiked daringly high or split provocatively, lined the docks. They winked seductively, perched on pilings, fanning themselves with tattered newspapers or languishing in doorways, unabashedly neglecting to conceal their bosoms. The air resonated with the amalgamation of saltwater, stale beer, and the sweat of others.
Cloaked in tinsel and marked by nautical pox scars, the prostitutes exuded an air that compelled Kate to contemplate their relocation to an infirmary or, at the very least, an impromptu retreat indoors to enhance the surroundings. Amongst them, Italians and Slavs thrived in abundance, their presence as pervasive as the spice of the docks. Oblivious to the recent shipping line's identity, Kate observed a congregation of emaciated figures near a pier, their bones protruding through their skin like thorns on a branch. Their gazes, laden with vacant trepidation, scanned each other and their unfamiliar surroundings. Passing them, Kate couldn't shake the notion that they had chosen a most ominous morning to come to America.
Approaching the building alluded to by No Name the night before, the girls cast their gaze upward. Emblematic of the district, it was once the opulent residence of a prosperous merchant. Crafted to awe with its exquisite stone embellishments, the mansion had, over time, metamorphosed into a den of squalor and harbinger of unsavory endeavors. Its contours eroded, likely tracing back to the tumultuous Panic of 1873, or perhaps the affluent owner had amassed even greater fortunes, abandoning the dwelling for the glamour of Fulton Street. Regardless, the tower stood as a lifeless relic, bearing witness to the ancient echoes of its former grandeur.
"Stay put," Kate instructed Camille, aware that the Quebecois farm girl wasn't accustomed to navigating the murky realms she was about to enter. "If I haven't returned in thirty minutes, seek me out."
Without bothering to knock, Kate pushed through the front door, propelled by a particular disposition that demanded immediacy.
The exterior had provided little preparation for the interior's squalor. A piano shrouded in dust crumbled beside a shelf adorned with liquor jugs and a poorly executed depiction of a Chinese idyll with lady friends. The madam, reclining on a vermin-infested fainting couch, languidly indulged in an opium pipe. The scarce air hung heavy with the odors of sweet corn in advanced decay and tarry residue.
"Give me a moment, my dear," the madam murmured without opening her eyes, preoccupied with the pipe. "None of them are awake at this early hour. It's against godly principles."
"I'm not a patron," Kate retorted, prompting the madam to rouse herself and direct her gaze towards the unexpected voice. "Katherine Moore."
"Seeking employment, love?" the madam inquired, her faculties dulled.
"Not in the market for that. Is Miles Krause here?"
"Can't rightly recall. It must have been hours ago. Are you his girlfriend?"
"Has he left?"
The wench’s rheumy eyes squinted in confusion. "Hasn't left yet, has he? Upstairs, third floor, with Colette. The second door is on the left. If he's in trouble, no need to wake the entire household."
Revulsed, Kate ascended the staircase in haste. The second door to her left stood ajar, inviting intrigue. Upon entering, she encountered a sparsely furnished space – a bed, a solitary lamp, a humble chamber pot, a vanity adorned with meager possessions. In the top drawer lay a collection of budget theatrical paint, seemingly incongruent with the room's emptiness. Dissatisfied with her findings, she proceeded to the adjacent chamber, giving the door a firm knock before abruptly entering.
Within, Grim lay reclined on the bed, clad only in undergarments. Nestled beside him, an enchanting mademoiselle, her curly flaxen hair contrasting starkly against the purity of the pillow, graced the scene in a state of undress, her skin reminiscent of the pale hue of tooth enamel. Her body was melted against his, and she absently traced invisible patterns on Grim's back. The tableau unfolded amid an array of intriguing articles: two elongated opium pipes, a pouch containing what appeared to be desiccated leaves, a miniature brown vial marked "tincture of ether," and a half-emptied whiskey bottle. Disheveled garments littered the floor, bearing witness to the clandestine drama that unfolded in this vice chamber.
"Grim," Kate called, her voice resonating with astonishment and disbelief. "Get up, Grim."
The woman's countenance emerged reluctantly from the comfort of the pillow, fixing a gaze upon Kate. It wasn’t a gaze of inquiry. Instead, it exuded a profound disinterest in discovering Kate's identity or connection to Grim. The disinterest was so profound that it could have empowered Kate to propel her fist through the walls surrounding them.
The prostitute’s discarded garments strewn across the floor bore a feminine but absurd quality—tawdry satin, lace, and brass trinkets. She hadn't been in the clutches of sleep, as her chestnut eyes held a lucidity untouched by slumber. The once heavily adorned visage, layered with makeup, had shed some of its powdery veneer and rouge over the night's tumult. The kohl that once accentuated her eyes now formed smudged trails streaking down her pallid cheeks.
In contrast, Grim lay entrenched in the depths of a blackout-induced unconsciousness, seemingly impervious to the unfolding events.
"Has he been here all night?" Kate inquired, her discerning gaze penetrating the mask of the woman's disheveled makeup, revealing naught but a girl, perhaps no more than fifteen or sixteen summers.
"Are you Natalie?" the girl inquired, a genuine perplexity knitting her brow.
"No," replied Kate with a weary exhale, fatigue evident in her voice.
"As for Miles, I don’t know. I reckon he got here a little after midnight. Madam indulges in the pipe so often, letting anyone come and go at all hours. His friend was just as handsome but drunk as a sailor when Claudia took him upstairs. Is he the one you’re looking for?"
"Not solely," admitted Kate, recognizing the allusion to Tide. Undoubtedly, Tide accompanied him. “Wake Miles up, if you would."
A shadow flickered across the girl's countenance, creasing worry lines prematurely upon her features. Lines, thicker and more profound than warranted, etching the passage of time with undue severity, aging her by years, far beyond Kate's temporal imprints. "Can't you let him sleep?"
Kate sighed, pacing to the bed's precipice before gracefully mounting it. She prodded Grim's left bicep persistently, her voice echoing through the room like an urgent symphony, "Grim, wake up!"
Grim shifted uneasily, resisting the call of consciousness. He rolled more profoundly into the embrace of slumber, tugging the blanket higher. "No," he mumbled with tepid conviction.
The ensuing minutes unfolded haphazardly, guided by an unforeseen choreography. Colette hesitantly slid out of bed, slightly limping to the washroom down the hall with her dress half-on, and Kate coerced Grim into sipping water from a faucet down the hall, appearing more pristine. His struggle with the glass was palpable, a delicate dance with his drunkenness. Kate might have extended sympathy, witnessing him in his linen drawers, trying to stave off the impending revolt of his insides, if not for the exhaustion etched into the tableau – a self-imposed state.
"I've stumbled upon a letter," Kate disclosed, her words trailing the lingering echoes of Grim's nocturnal escapades with a new girl a mere week after the heart-wrenching loss of Natalie and their unborn child. "Grim, Calico told me to sift through Mary's old correspondence. Maybe it amounts to nothing, but I thought it might interest you."
"And? You know I can’t read."
"It comes from a worker stationed at St. Ignatius Home for Wayward Girls in Poughkeepsie, a Children's Aid Society bastion. The letter has a timestamp from three years ago. She expresses her gratitude to Mary for her endeavors and contributions. Then she pledges support should Mary need any help."
"Yeah?" He expelled a raspy cough. "Mary's charity ain’t news—"
"But this letter specifically references the intake of girls from Randall's Island. One girl, taken from the Refuge three years ago, fell sick postpartum on the island. Mary was summoned to give care because she was a midwife years ago."
"I assume there’s a point to this," he mumbled, dabbing at his bloodshot eyes. "Get on with it so you can leave this hellhole."
"Dark as it is, this St. Ignatius could be the secret place they’re keeping Natalie. The signature on the letter belongs to Mrs. H. Wright, who also included her residence. Maybe a visit’s in order, where we could meet her, tell her we know, tell her your story—"
Grim interjected by pressing his fingers into the shadowy hollows beneath his eyes and extending his right hand.
"Give it here, ketsele."
Kate complied. Grim hoisted the letter, subjecting it to the pale sunlight streaming through the window. Then he retrieved a box of matches from the pocket of his cast-off trousers, strewn over a nearby chair. Kate, perturbed by the paradox of Grim's half-clad state, averted her gaze. The audible strike of a match against his thumbnail resonated, and she turned back to see Grim purposefully touching the flame to the parchment.
“Don’t,” Kate gasped, pleading with urgency, her fingers desperately reaching for the document, oblivious to her friend's half-exposed state.
Grim swiftly withdrew his hand, leaving Kate in stunned disbelief. In an unexpected turn of events, she futilely grasped for the burning letter above, watching as it turned ash. Towering over her, Grim possessed a combination of height and agility that made resistance futile. Memories flooded back to their childhood, where Kate, at eight, would gaze up at the fourteen-year-old Grim confiscating a cigarette, determined to teach her a lesson that ultimately went unlearned.
"Why?" Grim questioned, his gaze fixed on the expanding flames, unsettling Kate. "It ain’t helpful to us, Katherine."
Desperate to salvage a connection, Kate shifted tactics, observing the paper transform into delicate ash fragments. "But isn’t it a clue?"
"Could've been," Grim admitted in a sudden, angry tone. The emotional shift caught Kate off guard, causing her to cease her attempts to retrieve the letter. "Now it's ashes."
Kate attempted a different angle, refusing to accept defeat, her eyes locked on the dissipating remains. "Didn’t you consider it might have led us to Natalie?"
"No. Did you?" Grim's response was blunt.
"Maybe not," Kate retorted, frustration evident in her growl, "but how can we locate that woman who wrote Mary now that it's gone?"
By then, the letter had vanished. Grim, likely nursing a slight burn on his index finger, revealed no discomfort. He brushed delicate layers of soot from his golden hair, leaving Kate to grapple with the loss.
“And what exactly happens when we reach out to her?" Grim asked, cinching his trousers and securing the buttons without retrieving his dangling belt from the bedside.
"She might have information regarding Natalie!" Kate urged.
"That's very unlikely," he scowled.
"God forbid you entertain the notion that Natalie’s alive," Kate retorted, her tone dripping with disdain, an utterance she instantly regretted. “You’re too busy accepting the bullshit Snyder told you.”
"Hold your tongue," his stern voice lashed out, cutting through her like a whip. It echoed the same authority he employed when she was in genuine trouble, the tone reserved for the younger boys when their mischief surpassed mere amusement. "I appreciate your wanting to do right by me, Katherine. But you’re right, that letter was probably nothing.” He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “And thank you for the water. If you’d be so kind as to leave now..."
Gasping for breath, a torrent of emotions coursing through her, Kate shot a piercing glare in Grim's direction, the aftermath of the letter conflagration lingering. Without a moment's hesitation, she seized the untouched glass of water resting on the nightstand and hurled its lukewarm contents at Grim's face and exposed chest. A primal scream erupted from her lips.
Grim, taken aback, had never witnessed such a harrowing scream. The glass met its demise against the wall, shattering into fragments that echoed like a symphony of chaos. It was as if the racket sought to drown out all other senses, a desperate attempt to envelop the room in a storm of noise. Pottery lay broken, yet again, and Kate's hand bore the undeserved blame.
"Katherine, what in hell!"
Silent and incensed, Kate, her pulse throbbing in her temples, longed to dismantle every piece of furniture into mere splinters.
"You can't resort to destruction to have your way!"
"Why won't you listen to me, for once!" Kate's voice reverberated. "If you did, I wouldn't need to get your attention like this! Do you hear me now?"
"You would do well to leave before I lose my temper—"
"Stop talking down to me, Grim. I’m not a child."
"Yes, you are!"
"I turn eleven in a few months! The same age you were when you first got catted! No Name said it made you a man!"
"The hell it did! I was a child, much like you are and will be in a few months!" Grim stooped to collect the shattered glass, a rag wrapped around his hand. "You ain’t an adult, Katherine, and you know nothing of love, loss, or my relationship with Natalie."
"I do, too!"
"No, you don't. You think you do, but you’ll never understand."
"You don’t need to school me on loss. She was my dearest friend. It's the same for me—"
"She was my girlfriend, Katherine!" Grim bellowed, his finger nicked by the glass's sharp edge. He continued to tidy the wreckage, depositing it into a waste bin.
“Well, one didn’t have to fuck Natalie to have loved her!”
Grim discarded the remaining fragments into the receptacle, and as he rose, a simmering gaze was directed toward Kate. Once fixated on his boots, her eyes shifted, meeting his transformed countenance without flinching. He appeared adrift, a mere specter of the person she once recognized. His eyes, now an enigmatic stormy blue, mirrored a turbulent sea. The once angelic features had curdled into a blackened scowl. Kate speculated that the remnants of whatever he had smoked from the pipe and imbibed from the vial were coursing through his veins, weaving chaos within his thoughts. Maybe he was hallucinating at that very moment.
“But I did fuck her, Katherine. I fucked her so much, I knocked her up, and she had my baby.” He held his hands up and let them fall back down unceremoniously, like a messy shrug. “You want to be treated like an adult? I’ll talk to you like one. It’s not the same loss for you. It never will be.”
Kate instinctively pulled back in shock at his utterance, then swiftly grasped another porcelain vessel to shatter it.
"Don’t you dare!" he warned.
Unperturbed, Kate dismissed his caution and propelled the object through the air, resulting in a discord of shattering fragments. "Natalie wanted to get an abortion! She confided in Julia and told her she was scared. Scared of what you’d say or do!"
Camille clutched her shawl tightly, traversing the same cobblestone thoroughfare for twenty-five minutes, intermittently seeking respite on the stoop. Her gaze meandered aimlessly, capturing the bustling silhouette of sailors and dockworkers commencing their daybreak rituals in the hazy dawn light.
Fending off advances from three inebriated sporting men who had mistaken her for an inhabitant of the establishment behind her, Camille dismissively rebuffed their coin-fueled propositions. "I’m waiting for my father," she declared, gesturing towards a random, sinewy longshoreman in a heated dispute across the street. "I'll scream for him to come here if you don’t leave me alone."
Such words swiftly quelled the untoward advances.
Later, as a constable scrutinized the waterfront, his gaze locking onto her, Camille promptly rose and slipped into the building. Skulking past the reclining madam on the sofa, she ascended the creaking staircase, the echoes of familiar voices reverberating in the distance.
Grim and Kate.
Kate's anguished cries reverberated through the air, propelling Camille into a frantic sprint up the decaying steps. She ascended, leaping two at a time, reaching the third-floor landing with breathless urgency. There, she pinpointed the door where the distressing sounds originated.
Throwing the door wide, she stood paralyzed in a moment of horror that surpassed her worst nightmares.
"I'm sorry!" Kate's desperate plea pierced the air, her petite frame squirming helplessly beneath Grim's unyielding grasp. Grim, seated on the messy bed, held her in place across his lap with a formidable left arm. Camille's gaze fixated on Kate's dress hiked past her bloomers, and the resounding crack of Grim's leather belt meeting the frail girl’s body echoed through the room.
Instinctively, Camille clutched her heart, her voice erupting without pause for reflection. "Grim, stop it!"
Grim halted, casting a gaze at Camille that sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if he peered through her, fixating on a specter from another realm.
"Stay clear of this!" he bellowed at her, redirecting his attention to Kate. His stern countenance portrayed a sense of betrayal, resuming the conversation Camille had abruptly interrupted.
"Katherine, they showed me her death certificate!" His words were punctuated by the thud of the belt landing on her once more. "Why would they have such a document if she weren't truly dead?"
"I don't know!" Kate's voice, strained and youthfully vulnerable, cut through the air. It struck Camille as far more innocent than she had ever heard. "I'm sorry!"
"No more clues, no more damn theories! Allow my girl to rest, for God's sake!" Grim demanded, throwing the belt down on her again.
"They lied to you!"
"You need to—what?
"They lied to you!" Kate’s proclamation hung in the air like a nasty secret.
"What?" Grim's ire intensified, his features etched with anger.
Having wrested herself from Grim's grip, Kate limped to the farthest corner of the room, adjusting her disheveled dress. In her hands, she wielded Grim's opium pipe like an improvised weapon of defense. "I swear, I'll snap this in half if you dare lay another hand on me!"
Now, on his feet, Grim still clutched the leather belt, allowing it to dangle loosely at his side. His eyes, ablaze with intoxication, remained pinpoints of blue amidst reddened whites, a testament to the substances that enveloped the room. Unsteady, he gripped the belt tighter.
"Break that, and I'll see that you taste your first catting before your eleventh birthday," he vowed in a deep, almost whispered tone, trapped in a tense standoff with the defiant child before him.
Locked in a silent confrontation, their gazes collided, each daring the other with the promise of mutual destruction. Suddenly, Grim took a decisive step forward, and Kate flinched, swiftly snapping the elongated opium pipe in half against her knee.
Grim's profanity-laden curses echoed through the room as he seized Kate’s petite frame, forcefully propelling her onto the bed face-first. With relentless determination, he wielded the leather belt anew, unleashing a barrage of strikes upon her back this time, as had been done in the Refuge with the cruel cats.
"You have to stop destroying things that don’t belong to you!" Grim bellowed, the blows punctuating each word, while Kate's anguished cries resonated with the relentless onslaught.
Camille, frozen in the doorway, watched the dreadful scene unfolding before her. "Stop it, Grim!" she pleaded again desperately.
Ignoring Camille's entreaties, Grim paused in his punishment, allowing Kate to pull herself up and turn over, her face contorted in agony and wet trails of tears etching her reddened, blotchy cheeks.
Leaning over Kate on the bed, Grim brushed aside her dark tresses, demanding her attention amidst the tumult. "Listen to me," he commanded, his bare chest heaving with exertion. "You can’t investigate the Refuge!"
"I'm not!" Kate cried, despite her sore body, inching away from him on the bed.
"Yes, you are! No more dealings with CAS workers regarding Natalie! No more rifling through Mary's letters until you're mad with dead-ends!" Grim continued, his tirade unabated.
"Alright!" Kate conceded, her voice now feeble, whimpering in submission.
"It's not safe, Katherine!" Grim cried, fear lacing his voice, and Camille detected a trace of vulnerability.
"Alright," Kate repeated, her voice barely audible, succumbing to her torment.
"Natalie is just fucking dead," Grim insisted, his hands trembling. "Do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"I said, do you hear me?"
"Yes."
“Then I want you to fucking acknowledge it!”
“Natalie’s dead!” she stammered, grappling for breath.
Locked in a shared gaze, trembling and breathless, the weight of devastation pressed upon them. Grim, wiping sweat from his face, turned dismissively away from Kate. Seating himself on the bed, he buried his head in his hands, seeking composure.
"Leave," he finally uttered, rising and crossing the floor toward Camille. As he approached, she braced herself, but Grim reached into his pocket, to her surprise, retrieving a handful of coins. Placing the money in her palm, he spoke with unexpected gentleness, "Get yourselves a decent breakfast."
Camille, unsteady, clasped Kate's arm and guided her towards the exit as Grim sank back onto the bed. "No more indulging her whims," he admonished the French-speaking girl. "I can't afford trouble from either of you."
Sniffling, Kate hurried past Camille, gripping her hand urgently, humiliated and hurt from the harsh spanking. They nearly collided with a towering figure standing just behind them. Tide.
The brooding Tide stood, his sinewy arms folded, bearing the aftermath of a passionate night etched on his countenance. His gaze cut through the haze with a sober intensity directed at his companion beyond the doorway. Kate maintained a stony silence while Camille mustered a feeble greeting before her small friend tugged her away from that abyss.
Descending the stairs, they left the scene of suffering behind. The opium-drenched madam, now lost in the oblivion of slumber on the sofa, bore the remnants of her excess in the form of aged vomit staining her blouse, deep with thunderous snores.
Grim, meeting his oldest friend’s eyes, drew from a small brown vial, partaking in a swift inhalation of ether. Though quiet as a stone, his voice resonated with a simmering rage. "Did you tell No Name to send them here?" he inquired, his words dripping with an unspoken fury.
Tide, teeth clenched, lips forming a taut line, shook his head slowly, verdant eyes narrowing in disbelief.
"I won't lose two more girls to that cursed island. I won't," Grim murmured darkly, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. "Do you savvy?"
Tide's response was silence, his glare unwavering.
"Tide?" Grim reiterated, the volume of his voice escalating.
With a reluctant nod, Tide lowered his disapproving gaze. "How you treated Katherine—"
"I treated her as a child," Grim interjected, shrugging before reclining against the pillow. He covered his eyes in the cradle of his arm. "Now go back to your whore, and let me sleep in peace.”
Chapter 26: Cellblock Diplomacy
Summary:
“This is your fault, Krause,” he muttered.
“My fault?” Grim sat forward a little straighter, almost laughing. “How is this my fault?”
“You started it.”
“I did not start it.”
“Did, too.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did!” Muggs snapped with a loud growl, whipping around to face the young blond man behind him, still slumped against the wall. “Yes, you fucking did.”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
November 1897
Randall's Island, NY
“Don’t fucking poke me,” Tide muttered, shoving Cards’ bony finger away from his bicep. “I said no.”
Cards swept a lock of his dark brown hair behind his ear. He leaned forward on the church pew ahead of him, directly behind Tide. “I’ve never asked anything of you, McGurk.”
“Yes, you have.”
“Just one cigarette. I know you have some. I saw you and No Name smoking yesterday.”
Tide angled his face to the side. “If you ask me one more time for a bloody cigarette, I will set you on fire.”
“You’re such a prick.”
“You shouldn’t be smoking anyway. It’s not good for you.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Well, I’m a grown-up.”
Shakespeare suppressed a chuckle, covering his mouth and turning away. Cards stared dumbfounded at the back of Tide’s head.
The reverend dismissed the children from the chapel, casting an annoyed glance at Cards and Tide’s way for interrupting the sermon.
Jack inched between Doc and No Name, eager to make it down to the canteen in one piece without getting caught in the playful yet aggressive shoving match between Rails and Fleet.
In the long, cramped dining hall, the wards stood behind rough-hewn benches on both sides of plain wooden tables stretching nearly the entire room length. At the orderly's command, the inmates scrambled over the benches, taking their seats so chaotic that Jack couldn't help but liken it to animals at a feeding trough.
On the tables sat bowls of a murky liquid that Doc insisted was tea. Next to each bowl lay a thick slice of stale bread, generously buttered. Beside the bread sat a small saucer, upon closer inspection by Jack, revealed a meager serving of prunes—five per saucer, no more, no less. Jack observed as a group of younger boys at another table, with one particularly ravenous twelve-year-old, snatched prunes from neighboring saucers to supplement his own. Clutching his bowl of tea tightly, he even stole it from the child beside him, hastily consuming it.
Rails observed the scene, and when Jack met his gaze, he raised a dark eyebrow and remarked, "Survival of the fittest, ain't it?" with a weak smirk.
Looking around the tables, Jack saw children snatching bread and others left with nothing. All this the orderlies viewed with complete indifference. Jack began to despair of humanity until he noticed Calico tear his slice of bread in two and pass one portion to a little boy at a neighboring table, who had been robbed of his own and who accepted it eagerly, showing his gratitude with a small smile, with a front tooth missing. It was the first genuine smile Jack had seen in that place.
As if Jack could feel the weight of Calico's gaze, he lifted his head and stared back, sending shivers down Jack's spine. Calico appeared so feeble, so worn out. Jack could only meet his eyes briefly before he had to avert his gaze.
Amidst the chaotic scramble for food, attendants roamed behind the children, not bothering to halt the minor thefts but occasionally tossing an extra piece of bread to those in need.
The attendants brought metal cans once the bread and prunes had disappeared, which didn’t take long due to the meager portions and the children's apparent hunger. From these, they doled out onto each inmate's now-empty plate a small lump of gray, fatty meat and a solitary boiled potato.
Jack reckoned even a dog would turn its nose up at such a fare. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a dog so poorly fed. Yet, the children pounced on it like a grand banquet. Shakespeare and River winced as they tasted the meat, confirming its rotten nature, but managed to swallow it. Everyone else in the ward devoured it with haste despite its toughness. Everyone except Alexei prodded at it with his fork, pushing it around his plate in disgust.
“Lex, you gotta finish it,” Jack heard Muggs admonish his friend. “Whalen’s lookin’ at you.”
Alexei took a deep breath, catching Whalen’s menacing glare on him, threatening another unpleasant session with a greased tube down his throat if he didn’t comply. “I ate the bread. Isn’t that enough?”
“No.” Muggs quickly took half the meat from Alexei’s plate and set it on his own. “There, just eat half.”
Gagging as the food touched his lips, Alexei held the fork in determination until he’d bitten off the portion of grey meat.
“Atta boy,” Muggs mumbled, giving an encouraging pat on Alexei’s back and offering some counsel in hurried Russian. “Two more bites. Girls don’t want a skeleton to keep them warm at night.”
Alexei did so, grabbing the cup of tea and downing it immediately after he swallowed the last bit.
“I wanna throw up,” Alexei whispered in Russian, holding his head in his hands. “I wanna throw up so bad.”
When the meat and potatoes were done, the children looked balefully at their plates as though they could not believe the meager offering was already gone.
Each table’s occupants stood individually to place empty bowls and saucers on large carts for washing. Jack remained seated with his ward in the back of the canteen, knowing they’d be among the last tables to rise. He watched the littler boys clamor up and shove one another in line, quickly hushed by the overseeing orderlies.
“Charlotte Bell has gotten more beautiful since the last time she was here,” No Name observed quietly to Calico, giving a nod to a giggling girl his age across the way.
She waved coyly, exchanging a quick whisper with two of her friends. The three of them giggled now.
“What’s she in for this time?” Calico rasped.
“Hell if I know,” No Name mumbled, stacking his empty plate atop Calico’s. “She and I haven’t gone with each other since May.”
“Right, because you started going with Maria Mariano.”
“Which I feel bad about, thank you. I gotta find a way into her bed again.”
“How will you manage that?” Cohen asked incredulously. “She’s in ward 3 – they keep ‘em locked up like a convent.”
“Is that a dare?” No Name asked, raising an eyebrow.
The three burst into laughter.
Jack noticed how Cohen winced as he reached up to subconsciously run a finger along his bruised jaw – a gift dispatched by Mr. Montgomery – one of the disciplinarians who oversaw the girls’ dormitories. The bruise was nothing compared to what Cohen had received from worse opponents in the ring and on the street.
He’d gotten a beating not a few days ago by Montgomery, forced to stand there and take it, not permitted to block his face. Jack assumed it had been over something typical, like using ‘smart talk’ with a guard or refusing to work on a task. He’d been wrong, of course.
The beating had been in response to Cohen interfering with another's discipline.
“A young miss, with blonde plaits…made to stand in shame in the courtyard,” Cohen told Jack the other evening in the washroom, when Jack had asked what happened, what could’ve warranted such a beating from Montgomery – who hardly ever interacted with ward 11. “Montgomery had her on a chair, standing for hours in the cold. Poor chit was all teeth-chattering and tears.”
“For what?” Jack asked, holding his breath as he awaited the explanation.
“Naught more than to humiliate her,” Cohen said, splashing water from the sink onto his face. “She’d gotten her monthly during school lessons, bled through her dress. The same one she was wearing in the courtyard.”
Jack’s expression must’ve shown his disgust because Cohen rolled his eyes and gave a quick, incredulous laugh that only made Jack want to disappear. “Maybe if they gave the girls proper sanitary napkins in this place, these things wouldn’t happen. It was no fault of hers.”
Cohen had offered his hand and helped the girl – twelve-year-old Masha Ivanova – down from where she stood, giving her his coat and immediately steering her inside. Insisting there was nothing Montgomery could do to him that could be worse than that. Depend upon it.
Well done, Jack had wanted to say. But he didn’t. He’d only kept quiet, watching Cohen throw a towel over his shoulder and head back into the dormitory. As he stared at Cohen, absently running his fingers over the bruise, he wondered what would’ve happened if he hadn’t walked through the courtyard that afternoon and seen Masha. Worse yet, if he hadn’t said anything. Jack wondered how many inmates had strolled by, not paying her any mind or teasing her.
“Time’s nearly up,” Tide reminded Jack, nodding to his half-eaten meal. “Better finish now or starve later.”
Grim was still unwell from his explosion at matron Nell Anderson two days prior in the schoolroom. He was incensed at the letter from Julia Hawthorne about the state of Katherine Moore. All that he’d learned about the former island Reverend Coster, about Nell Anderson’s involvement in the suffering of yet another one of his friends. He’d been in a daze since that evening, wandering through an empty routine, only speaking to Jack when spoken to.
He rose from his seat, tray in hand, intending to return it to the kitchen. The aisle between the tables was narrow, allowing only one person to pass at a time. The guards stood watch, their gaze fixed on their designated areas. With subtle gestures and nods, they orchestrated the movement of inmates, creating a seamless dance of obedience. It was a choreography of precision and control, where guards and prisoners merged into a human conveyor belt. There was no margin for error, no allowance for mishaps, and no room for lapses in attention.
As Grim navigated the crowded row of tables, his attention fixed on the kitchen door, Jack followed closely behind, trailed by Calico. Unbeknownst to them, Muggs, standing to Grim's left, began to inch out of line.
Grim took three steps forward with only inches to spare, his tray grazing Muggs' arm. In a swift motion, Muggs reacted, knocking the tray from Grim's grasp and sending it crashing to the ground in plain sight of a nearby guard.
Grim whirled to face Muggs, who stood with a smirk, and his hands balled into fists. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“You ran into me,” Muggs said.
“I didn’t mean to, Muggs.”
“So watch where you’re going better,” Muggs said. “Dumb fuckin’ Yid.”
Grim let fly a mighty right swing at Muggs, catching him square on the jaw. Despite the force of the blow, Muggs barely flinched, to Jack's utter amazement. It was a scene so absurd it could have leaped straight from the pages of a cheap novel, but Muggs wore no grin. This was reality, not fiction.
Without hesitation, Muggs lunged at Grim, and they tumbled to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs, their shirts and skin scraping against the filthy ground. Muggs landed two swift left punches, one striking Grim's eye precisely. A circle of onlookers formed around them, silently observing the scuffle, some clutching trays of half-eaten food. The guard, whom Jack surmised was new to his post, stood aloof, his expression a mysterious mask.
Jack stood his ground, scanning the circle for more brutal characters like Alexei, Rails, or River. He watched for any signs of weapons changing hands, anticipating someone to ally with Muggs against Grim.
Muggs rubbed sawdust against Grim’s face, grinding it into his eyes. Grim shot a stiff knee into Muggs’ groin and followed it with a short right to his kidney.
“You’re full of shit, Krause,” Muggs said, putting his hands around Grim’s throat and tightening his grip. “Go on, be a real martyr, right here and now.”
Jack cast his tray aside with a clatter and leaped upon Muggs’ back, raining blows upon his neck and head in a frantic attempt to break free. Muggs, feeling the assault, relinquished one grip and redirected his fury towards Jack, his fists rising in a flurry, grazing Jack’s shoulder and side. In this momentary respite, Grim seized the opportunity to breathe much-needed air. With a swift maneuver, Muggs shifted his weight, his palm pressing against Jack’s chin, striving to dislodge the younger boy from his back. They rolled over, and Grim swept along in the tumult until Jack landed heavily atop Grim’s tray, his garment dampened with stickiness. Muggs was a whirlwind of flailing limbs, his strikes akin to a primal force unleashed upon both adversaries. Jack, shielding his face with his hands, huddled his elbows close, deflecting as many blows as possible from Muggs’ onslaught.
Meanwhile, Grim persisted in his efforts to restrain Muggs while defending himself. The onlookers, drawn in by the spectacle, edged closer, anticipating the grisly conclusion to this clash of wills. A swift kick to Jack's throat robbed him of breath, followed by a savage punch to his jaw, sending blood streaming from his nose. The voices of fellow inmates, spurred on by the savage thrill of combat, echoed in cheers, rallying behind Muggs and Grim in their pursuit of victory.
“Finish him!” someone from behind Jack shouted. It was a bigger boy from another ward.
“Kick him!” another said.
“Stop it, all of you!” still another screamed. “Step back and leave it alone!”
The shrill sound of a police whistle brought the shouts to an end.
As Whalen strolled through the parted crowd, every eye fixated on him with a hushed reverence. He held the clinking handcuffs in one hand while the other gripped the hefty end of his baton. A wad of tobacco occupied his chewing jaw, and a cigarette found a temporary home behind his ear. Sweat stains adorned the back of his shirt, a testament to the sweltering heat of the factory he oversaw. His gaze swept over Jack, Grim, and Muggs, who stood before him, their figures caked in a mosaic of dirt and blood.
Coming to a halt in front of Jack, Whalen deftly plucked the cigarette from its resting place and brought it to his lips, igniting it with practiced ease. Inhaling deeply, he savored the smoke swirling within him, exhaling it in a slow, deliberate stream through his nostrils, all the while his jaw worked tirelessly on the tobacco.
The sadistic guard turned away, directing his attention towards the inmates gathered behind him. He surveyed their expressions, running his fingers through his hair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. "Back to your seats and finish your meal," Whalen instructed them. "There's nothing more to witness here."
"What about me, sir?" Jack inquired, smoothing his hands over his trousers.
"No," Whalen replied, turning back to face him. "No, not you. I want you to return to your dormitory. Supper's over for you." He gestured with his baton towards Muggs and Grim. "You two, come along with me."
“Won’t do either of us any good even if you manage to break it open,” Grim said bitterly, leaning against the brick wall as Muggs fumbled with a long, loose spike in the keylock on the bars of their shared cell in solitary. He watched Muggs’ fingernails come back bloody from the lock. “Muggs, give it a rest. You’ve been at it for an hour.”
“I’ve gotten out before…”
“Well, that’s bully for you. It isn’t worth slicing up your fingers. You’re no George Leslie.”
At the mention of the notorious safe-cracker, Muggs rolled his eyes and stuck his bloody finger in his mouth, sucking at the wound. “What are the odds Nell comes down here before Whalen?”
It was a question, but it wasn’t asked like one. Grim could hear the certainty in Muggs’ voice. “Ideally, Roosevelt blows the doors of this place before then.”
“I could use a good tumble before we get our assess kicked.”
Grim rolled his eyes. “You and I know you haven’t got the stomach for it, like me.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I just did.”
“This is your fault, Krause,” he muttered.
“My fault?” Grim sat forward a little straighter, almost laughing. “How is this my fault?”
“You started it.”
“I did not start it.”
“Did, too.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did!” Muggs snapped with a loud growl, whipping around to face the young blond man behind him, still slumped against the wall. “Yes, you fucking did.”
“I…” Grim trailed off, his bones feeling all sorts of strange at the look Muggs gave him. It wasn’t just the usual red-level rage on Muggs’ face—there was something else there, too. Jealousy. “This isn’t about what happened at dinner. What is it this time? A girl?”
Muggs remained silent, his shame morphing into a fiery semblance of anger, while Grim, in response, clenched his teeth tightly, casting a fierce gaze at Muggs.
“What is the matter with you?” Grim demanded. “I’ve got enough headache from affairs on the outside of this place you can’t even fathom. All you can do is concern yourself with girls who don’t even know your name. That, and getting another cocaine fix. God, how self-involved can be?”
“I gotta concern myself with those things, don’t I? Since you threw me on the streets three years ago. I don’t thank you enough for that.”
Grim sniffed. “Please, you were begging for an excuse to leave the lodging house. And you’re a fine one to talk, pretending you weren’t bringing trouble around the kids who lived there, around Mary.”
“You’re one to talk, keeping Mary wrapped around your finger while you snuck around and did as you pleased,” Muggs hissed.
“As if half the shit I did was equal to yours,” Grim returned contemptuously.
“You set fire to Mary’s clothesline when you came home hungover, and I got the damn blame.”
“Muggs, that was years ago, and I didn’t mean to do that.”
"You didn't reckon on me bearing the brunt of it all, did you?" Muggs exclaimed. "My fault again. It seems only right you should answer for what you set out to do. But did you aim to have so much opium that you got Natalie pregnant? Was it your intent to mix it with hashish, laudanum, morphine, or whatever concoction left you in such a stupor? And after all your harping on me about the folly of not wearing shields..."
Grim lurched forward against the wall, livid. “I get out of here in less than two months. I have been good, dammit. And I have a biblical mess waiting for me when I get out of here, a mess I can’t even begin to clean up because I should’ve been there to prevent it a year ago. Instead, I have to bide my time, break my back working in the shops, risk my life in the foundry, go for days without food, and look out for the lot of our ward without your appreciation or acknowledgment. Just in case it slipped your mind, I have been looking out for you since I was fourteen. I’ve been whipped in here more times than I can count. I was made to be an example when Snyder wants to scare you into behaving. I’ve had to sit quietly through sermons where Reverend Fleming used me as a lesson against immortality. Listen as he calls my son the price of impurity, illegitimate, stained with my sins. Do you know what that feels like, Matthew?”
At the calculated use of Matthew, which Muggs despised, the dark-haired boy could feel his blood boiling under his shirt collar.
“How’s Julia Hawthorne, by the way?” Muggs interrupted, a scowl twisting his otherwise handsome features. “Rails said she wrote to you and Tide.”
“What the hell does Julia have to do with this? And how do you even know her?”
“You’re keen to deny it, then. I figured as much,” Muggs remarked, realizing only as they left his lips that the words he spoke were poison, “seeing as you lie about most else. First Natalie, now Julia. Is the CAS paying you to make babies they can sell?”
The response would have been less pronounced if Muggs had risen and delivered a resounding slap across Grim's face. Grim's eyebrows soared momentarily, only to plummet swiftly afterward, the veins in his neck pulsating angrily.
“Listen to me, you unspeakably obnoxious dog,” Grim said. “I have a lot of women friends who are spiritual, which is a way of life that’s foreign to you. If that's what you're implying, I don’t go around ruining them. Natalie was my girl, that’s it. I don’t know what you think you’ve heard about Julia Hawthorne, but I’ve not gotten any other moll in trouble.”
“So Julia doesn’t count?” Muggs asked. “Let me guess, it was an accident. You didn’t mean to. You tripped with your pants down, and Julia was right there, bent over and—”
“Enough,” Grim raged, on his feet by now, gripping the stony bench with white knuckles.
Muggs mirrored him, clutching the bars, the two squaring off like alley dogs, teeth bared. "Aces, you stumble into trouble with the grace of a drunken horse. Did you aim to rile up Nell Anderson so much that even God couldn't predict Snyder's next move?"
“I meant to protect someone.”
“Oh, perfect, you’re punishing us all for selflessness. Only, Whalen will have a field day down here if Snyder deems us fit examples.”
“I can take another lashing if you’re worried about that. I can take yours, too. I’ll explain it was my fault like you said—”
“I ain’t dreading the damn cats, Krause!” Muggs roared. “It’s everything else!”
“I’m sorry about that!” Grim shouted, incensed.
“You’re sorry about it?” Muggs yelled in disbelief.
“Yes, I said I was!”
“You’re never truly sorry for anything, and you’re sorry about that? That is what you’re sorry for?”
“Are you deaf?”
“What in hell is wrong with you?”
“Whatever’s wrong with me, at least I’m capable of feeling sorry.”
“And I ain’t?”
Grim reached out to snatch the spike away. Muggs had been using it to jab at him in the chest, trying to drive home a point. They wrestled over it, their arms locked in a struggle, pulling and tugging like a peculiar form of arm wrestling.
“I hate you,” Muggs spat for the first time in years.
“I don’t give a single shit.”
“Yes, you do, you goddamn messiah-wannabe.”
“No, I—"
The door to the solitary block opened, and Mr. Kinney walked in. The boys watched silently as he lit the lamps along the corridor, saying nothing to either of them. As soon as he was finished, he made his way back down the walk and through the large iron door, slamming it behind him and leaving the boys alone once again.
As the two caught their breath, chests heaving in anger, Muggs suddenly threw the spike against the wall, watching it clatter to the pavement. Grim backed off, slumping again to the floor, his back resting against the grimy wall. Muggs watched him momentarily and then took his place opposite Grim, sprawling his legs before him, feeling the excellent ground against his calloused hands.
“What the hell has Whalen done to you?” Grim asked, his voice hoarse. He watched Muggs flinch at the question like a bed bug had bitten him. “Something’s wrong, Tracey. I know he’s got you doing extra chores, but what’s his angle? Every time you come back, it’s like you’re fit to kill one of us.”
“I ain’t all that sure I won’t.”
“Muggs! Do you hear yourself?”
Frustration boiled in Muggs’ veins. “You really wanna know what those chores are?” he shouted. “Goddammit, Krause, don’t you get it?”
No, Grim thought, but he forced a curt nod.
Muggs’ hands were trembling. He tried to get them to stop. He tried to ignore the memories of Whalen telling him he looked like Colleen when he was on his knees. So pretty.
Muggs didn’t know what to make of that. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be like his sister if that’s what he got in return. He didn’t want to be called pretty, especially not by Whalen. He didn’t want to be on his knees to begin with.
Pretty green eyes, you Tracey’s have. So pretty.
Muggs found himself disliking his reflection. Each time he glanced at himself in the washroom mirror, he could hardly bear it. Instead of facing his image, he rinsed his face vigorously under the tap, gulping down water to cleanse his mouth. He swished and spat repeatedly, trying to rid himself of the unpleasant taste. Then, he resorted to using a grimy bar of soap, forcing it into his mouth to scrub his tongue. Despite the bitterness and sharpness causing him to gag and his throat to burn, he deemed it preferable to the alternative. After rinsing his mouth until the taste of soap vanished, he proceeded to scrub his hands thoroughly before drying them with a towel.
“Muggs, if it’s too much to talk about, you don’t have to. Has he been lashing you? They can't whip us more than once a week. That’s against the rules, and Whalen knows it—”
“Last night, he told me to take off my clothes,” Muggs began, coldly, distant, as if he were recalling what he’d bought at the market. “Take off my clothes, stand there, and…he wanted to watch. That’s all.”
“He wanted to watch?”
“Yeah.” Muggs sniffed, wiped his nose, and looked away. “Fuckin’ pervert likes to watch.”
Grim opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came. He closed it, tilting his head curiously, and then shook it. “How can you…I mean, how do you even…”
“Sometimes I think about Nell. She makes for a nice picture,” Muggs admitted with a slow shrug. “Or any other girl I’ve been with. Or want to be with.”
And he did. As he breathed, staring ahead, he pictured her twisting beneath him. He had Julia secured to the bed with one hand on the small of her back and another keeping her wrists pulled up above her head. They were both still clothed, though not by a lot – dressed in their underclothes. Muggs’ arm flexed with the force he used to keep Julia from falling off the bed and grinding himself against her perky behind while the uptown girl muttered curses and blasphemy. She makes for an especially teasing brand of beauty – far more than Nell Anderson.
“That’s wretched of him. He is a damn pervert,” Grim stared blankly back at Muggs. “You don’t deserve that, Muggs.”
The dark-haired boy rolled his eyes. “Nothin’ I ain’t doing anyway,” he said, forcing a dry laugh. “Besides, it’s better than some of the other chores.”
Neither of them spoke for some time.
“I know you don’t care to believe me,” Grim finally said quietly, changing the subject, studying a pair of mice in the corner, “but I’ve no place left in my heart for anyone but her. Natalie. I’ve not thought of Julia Hawthorne that way or any other woman.”
Muggs didn’t say anything. He dug his boot into a dead spider. His eyes had a lifeless green tint. He crossed his arms, his long and bloodied fingers clutching opposite sides of his biceps like he was cold.
“I don’t much like it when Reverend Fleming uses you as an example,” he finally murmured, so quietly Grim almost didn’t hear him. “He wasn’t even workin’ here when that happened.”
All the features of Grim’s face seemed to shift and resettle in a wave as if a shudder of pain had rippled through him quickly. When he spoke again, the tone of distrust had vanished from his voice, to be replaced only by resignation and sorrow. “I don’t mind. It’s been about three years.”
“Time doesn’t justify it none,” Muggs offered in some strange attempt at sympathy. “My folks lost my brother almost five years ago. I know it pains them something awful. That hurt doesn’t just go away 'cause the clock says so.”
Grim weighed the matter for another moment, then nodded. “No, it doesn’t.”
He watched Muggs dig his heel into a spider crawling toward his boot.
“Julia Hawthorne, huh?” Grim asked quietly, almost like he was dared to.
Muggs stole a glance at the young man opposite him. “Yeah.”
“Is that why you rescued her remains?” Grim met Muggs’ confused stare with his own slow, sad smile. “The portrait Marquette sketched of her in Bible class. He draws his friends when he’s bored. Yesterday, he drew Julia, and Reverend Fleming snatched it, tore it up, and threw it away. I saw you…salvaging it.”
“She’s alright. I don’t know her well. I mean…” Muggs shivered slightly.
Several seconds passed. “Oh.” Grim nodded as if all the problems of the world suddenly made sense. “You like her.”
“You ain’t listening to me,” Muggs growled.
“I hear every word, even the ones you aren’t saying. You’re nervous. You like her, and you’re nervous.”
Muggs sunk back against the wall put his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. “How I feel doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”
“Wrong. You don’t believe me. Why not tell her?”
“And why would I bother?”
“Because you can’t hide out, alone, for the rest of your life, drinking and drugging yourself to death.”
“I ain’t alone.”
“Yes, you are,” Grim said. “Because Alexei and Colleen won’t sit around and watch you destroy yourself. And I won’t either. Talk to Julia, Muggs.” Grim hugged himself. He was getting cold, too. “Fine. What about Liv Blake? I thought you were seeing her.”
Grim raised his eyebrows, curious.
“I ain’t sure if I like her,” Muggs said quietly. “It’s strange. I think she’s pretty, but I don’t want to be with her when I get alone. I’d rather be with someone less like me.” He almost smiled. A crooked half-smile. “That makes sense, or does that sound crazy, Krause?”
Grim ran a hand over his face and hair. Muggs sounded all too human suddenly. “It…” he started. No, it didn’t sound wild.
The door to the cell block creaked again. Grim flinched. Goose bumps rose his arms, and he peered out of the cell. It was only rats.
Muggs picked a loose strand of wool from his jacket, detecting incredulity in Grim’s voice. He squeezed his eyes closed. “Grim?” he asked after a long beat. “I need some, um…advice.” He spat the word like it tasted sour.
“Advice?” Grim almost wanted to tease but held back, nervously running another hand through his blond hair.
“Yeah,” Muggs said. “Julia’s kind of…unattainable. I’m out of ideas.”
“Don’t be yourself,” Grim said.
Muggs groaned. “I’ve tried that, I think.”
“Ask someone else to be your girl, then.”
Muggs rolled his eyes. “Are you going to help or not?”
“Someone’s got it bad,” Grim smirked, then snapped his fingers. “I don’t know. Most girls like smart men. You can read, so you’re off to a good start. Anyway, Lucille Moffett likes you. For you, apparently.”
Muggs groaned and rolled his eyes. “She’s nobody.”
“Nobody?” Grim sounded disgusted. “She’s from one of the richest families in the city.”
“Whatever.”
“Why don’t you like Lucille Moffett? She’s got it all.”
Muggs groaned again. “If you like her so much, why don’t you make her your girl?”
Grim glared at him. “Like I said, if you can’t be mature about this, find someone else.”
“Is it because you and Julia are fucking?”
“Oh my God!” Grim buried his head in his hands while Muggs drew his knees to his chest. “No, for the last time. We’re not…I don’t like her in that way.”
Muggs bowed his head, giving a slow nod. A large clap of thunder from somewhere outside the stone walls made him gaze upward toward the staircase leading down to solitary. “You don’t think I’m good enough for her.”
“That ain’t it.”
“Then what?” Muggs scratched self-consciously at the nape of his neck. Ruminating. Or he was debating whether Grim was worth beating up in that moment.
“It’s not a good time,” Grim answered. “She’s got her hands full with…forget it. I’ve told you too much anyway.”
“You never tell me enough. Finish your sentences, for God’s sake.”
Grim swallowed, choosing his words carefully. “Her little friend—Katherine—went missing for some time. When Julia got her back, she was in a bad way. Beaten, starved, badly maimed…”
Muggs searched Grim’s stormy blue eyes as if reading his mind before Grim had formed the thought. “Assaulted?”
Grim nodded silently. Assaulted…Muggs certainly meant raped. Grim could sense the change in tone to a more delicate choice of words from the devil that sat across from him. “She was indentured as a maid to Reverend Coster. He used to work here. Taught Bible study.”
“Reverend Coster,” Muggs repeated slowly. He used the same voice timbre he would have spent on the cats. “Right. The human parasite that he is. My brother told me plenty about him when he was here. But why was he torturing Julia’s friend in particular?”
“Katherine Moore—she’s Colleen’s age. I guess the Reverend likes his maids young. He figured Katherine for a ripe valuable.”
“Julia interfered with it?”
“Illegally, one might say, yes.”
Muggs blew a sharp gust of frustration through his teeth.
“Julia had to kill Reverend Coster to free Katherine. And Mrs. Anderson arranged for the girl to be sent to him.”
Muggs stiffened. “Say that again. Slower.”
“Nell was behind it. Or hired her out to Coster, rather. God, Muggs, take a breath—”
“Start,” Muggs hissed, “at the beginning.”
“What about—” Grim gestured to the stairwell.
“Ain’t nobody listening to the likes of us,” Muggs growled. “Talk.”
“Coster asked one of his coworkers, an equally loyal and crooked one, to supply him with a girl to use as he pleased. Then Nell delivered Katherine to him…a girl whose parents didn’t care if she was dead in the gutter, who ran wild in the streets, and was Julia’s best friend. If Nell told her parents she was taking Katherine to the Children’s Aid Society, they never would’ve questioned it.”
“Who else knows?”
“Marquette, Tide, Calico, No Name…”
“How did you stumble upon this?”
“Muggs, I’ve known Katherine since that refuge stay in 1892. Nell knew her during that time. And Coster, he was after her then, too.”
“How old was Katherine then?”
“Near eight.”
“That sick son of a bitch,” Muggs breathed.
“Dead to rights. Cruelty is something of interest for Coster,” Grim continued. “That’s how I figured—”
“Cool it,” Muggs murmured, nodding to the door at the end of the block that swung open.
Both young men held their breath, bracing themselves for whoever’s sinister face would greet them next.
“Shit,” Muggs hears Grim whisper.
Seeing Nell Anderson’s face before them, opposite their cell, smiling like that other breed of angel—the ones from hell.
“My poor, poor boys. What have you done this time?” she admonished, drawing her shawl about her shoulders and wrapping her claws around the bars. “Fighting in the dining hall, last I heard. Is that correct?”
Grim kept his eyes closed. Muggs looked from him to Nell, fixing his expression into smug arrogance.
“Well, it looks as though the guards did a number,” she said, pouting at the bruises on their respective faces. “Pity.” She moved her dainty hands up and down the filthy bars, maintaining her look of bizarre sympathy and amusement. “Is there nothing I can do or say? To both of you?”
Grim’s eyes opened, tired. He met Muggs’ gaze and slumped further down, wrapping his arms around himself. “I haven’t bathed,” was all the blond boy muttered.
“That’s no matter,” Nell drawled with a smile of pearly whites. “Why, I could draw you a bath now—”
“No,” Grim protested, his youthful face troubled. Muggs read it for what it was in an instant. Disgust. “Thank you.”
Muggs widened his eyes but said nothing. Politeness, he thought, is highly unhealthy.
“Miles,” Nell hummed, fishing in her apron pocket and pulling out a set of keys. “You sweet angel.”
The door was soon open, swinging with a dreadful creak that sent Grim’s head into a pounding ache. With no more than four steps, her lantern was set down, and she was bent beside Grim, ruffling his blond, greasy hair. Tenderly.
Muggs bit his tongue as he watched her caress Grim’s cheek and forehead, whispering his birth name over and over until he shrugged her off. He felt his skin sting like it was on fire. Worse than when he’d gotten his first tattoo. Worse than when Alexei thought it was a good idea to pierce their ears after a night of drinking.
Grim stared up at her warily, shaking his head. “No,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse and crackled. It made Muggs’ stomach drop. “I’m exhausted, dammit.”
Nell clicked her tongue in mock disappointment, tracing his lips with a long fingernail. “But my body is purring for you, Miles,” she whispered close to his earlobe, paying no mind that Muggs was a few feet away and could hear every word. Instead, she lowered herself further until she sat on the grimy ground beside Grim, nuzzling into his neck and inhaling his collar slowly. “Miles, Miles, Miles.”
Muggs’ eyes widened once more. “Jesus…”
Grim nudged her away from him with his shoulder, drawing his knees to his chest. “You want it so bad, go to Valentino. Or Morozov, he’ll do anyone for opium.”
That was unusual. Muggs never knew Grim would send Nell after any of the others.
“I’m serious,” Grim continued. “Leave me alone.”
Nell let out a glass-shattering giggle, but Grim’s face indicated he wasn’t joking. She reached her hand around to squeeze the front of his trousers. “But I miss you—”
“Get away from me!” Grim shouted, shoving her away. It was more challenging this time, making her yelp in surprise.
Muggs caught her as she was launched backward, grabbing her upper sleeves and feeling her head against his shoulder. “Easy, Krause. That ain’t no way to treat a lady.”
Grim didn’t even look at him. He curled up on the makeshift bed pallet and drew up the blanket, facing the wall. “She’s no lady. She’s the devil.”
“That so?” Muggs asked, flashing a skirt-dropping smile at the woman in his arms. “Mrs. Anderson, are you the devil herself?”
She blinked, abruptly realizing her cheeks were slightly rosy and there was a faint stirring in her belly. “You’re the sinner, Matthew Tracey.”
Muggs let it happen, one hand curling around his chin and the other gripping his wrist. She tilted his face down to give him a somewhat domineering kiss while also pulling his arm up and bringing his hand down her loosened corset.
“Miles, you won’t mind, will you?” Nell called, gasping as Muggs expertly ripped at the strings of her corset. Grim didn’t turn around and didn’t respond at all. “Oh, what am I saying? Of course, you don’t mind sharing it with Tracey.”
This caused visible confusion on Muggs’ face, though he ignored the feeling it gave him and pressed on. Anything to let Grim rest for just one night. Even if Muggs couldn’t promise much peace. Not from Nell, anyway. But he could try to keep himself quiet.
For the next hour, that’s precisely what he did with Grim somewhere beside him, Nell beneath him, and Julia Hawthorne somewhere in the fore of his mind.
Chapter 27: The Departure
Summary:
“I want to see the big boats,” Matthew protested, trying to squirm out of his father’s tight grasp. “You’re being mean!”
“Oh, I can be a lot meaner than this, boy,” Colm spat, shoving Matthew along.
Valeriya and Jesse rushed forward, both out of breath and white as ghosts. “Please, Colm, he’s only small,” Valeriya begged, her voice shaking. “He’s been talking about seeing the boats all week.”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
February 1884
Brooklyn, NY
“Are you sure you have everything in order?” Colm asked her, brushing the sun from his eyes with a sweep of his hat brim.
He hoisted three large carpet bags with him, navigating through a large crowd on the docks.
“Yes, everything is in order,” Valeriya replied, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to sound confident.
The bustling docks of New York City seemed overwhelming. The cacophony of voices and the smell of salt, fish, and tar assaulted her senses. She clutched the hands of her two young sons tightly, their tiny fingers intertwined with hers, seeking comfort in their warmth.
“Tickets, money. I’ve got your bags. And I packed a bottle of paregoric in there should one of you get sick on the way. Once you get to Liverpool, please send me a telegram so I know you’ve made it. Do the same when you get to Minsk.” He pondered the statement and then shook his head. “Does your village have a telegraph?”
Valeriya struggled to keep up with her husband, holding hands with her young sons. She nodded, her heart heavy. “My mother will meet us at a railway station. They will have telegraph there.”
“Good.”
She smiled gratefully. “Thank you,” she said softly.
She glanced down at her swollen belly. The journey ahead felt daunting, especially with her delicate condition, but the thought of reuniting with her kin was a far more significant, exhilarating feeling. And she was seeing her mother again, especially so.
Valeriya’s family hadn’t seen her in nearly eight years, save for the one black-and-white photograph she’d sent them two Christmases ago, in which she and Colm pose behind their sons at a December Tammany bazaar. Jesse was drawn to something out of view, and one of his suspenders had mysteriously come apart. Matthew’s hands were blurred as he threw an impatient tantrum, his expression sour. He was bundled up warmly, his little face peeking out from the layers of clothing.
Valeriya felt as though she looked tired in that picture, worn from a long day of wrangling two busy little boys and putting on a show of perfect wife for the dead rabbits, fire dogs, politicians, and Bowery girls in Colm’s entourage. She sat in a chair and looked down at Matthew in her arms, her mouth slightly open as if she were saying something. Probably something to no avail. She was in one of her long skirts and blouses, with a pretty-patterned shawl that had been a birthday present from her good friend Nellie Conlon.
Colm stood seriously and proud in the photograph, towering over the three, with one hand on Jesse’s shoulder and the slightest smirk on his face. He was the only one looking at the camera. Everything about him was tidy in comparison. He wore a wool coat, trousers, and sturdy boots, with his hair neat and parted to one side with pomade.
He always looked perfect, she thought. Somehow, no matter the situation or his temperament, he looked confident.
As they made their way through the crowd, Valeriya couldn’t help but steal glances at her husband, taking in his sturdy fireman’s frame and the determined set of his jaw. Colm looked confident, but she knew he was anxious. She knew he was doing his best to be strong for her, even though she could see the worry etched into the suntanned lines on his face.
As they finally reached the gangplank of the steamship, Valeriya took a deep breath, steeling herself for the adventure ahead.
She couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt at the thought of leaving Colm to manage on his own. He was a capable man, but she knew how much he relied on her for the day-to-day running of their household. She made a mental note to send him detailed instructions in her letters. Colm would be lost without her while she was gone – that she was sure of. Just the week before, she’d shown him how to prepare a few basic meals for breakfast and dinner.
Jesse’s eyes widened as he looked up at his parents. “Ma, Matthew’s gone!” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with panic. “I turned around, and he’s gone!”
Valeriya’s heart skipped a beat as she looked down at her empty right hand. She frantically scanned the crowd, her eyes darting from one child’s face to another in search of her son.
“Matvei! Darling, where are you?” she called out, her voice trembling with fear. “Oh my God, Colm, do something!”
Colm’s brow furrowed as he joined the dizzying search, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to spot the dark-haired little boy amidst the sea of people. “Matthew!” His voice boomed, turning the heads of several passengers nearby. “Matthew!” He caught sight of the small figure at the edge of the dock, his green eyes widening in horror as he realized what had happened.
“Matthew Tracey!” he shouted, his voice rising over the crowd's noise. “Get back here this instant!”
Oblivious to his danger, Matthew had already started climbing aboard a nearby ferry, chasing after a pair of giant squawking seagulls.
With adrenaline, Colm raced toward his son, reaching out and grabbing the back of Muggs’ shirt before he could disappear onto the wrong ship. “Matthew, what were you thinking?” he scolded. He smacked the boy upside the head. “You could’ve ended up in Timbuktu, damn you!”
“I want to see the big boats,” Matthew protested, trying to squirm out of his father’s tight grasp. “You’re being mean!”
“Oh, I can be a lot meaner than this, boy,” Colm spat, shoving Matthew along.
Valeriya and Jesse rushed forward, both out of breath and white as ghosts. “Please, Colm, he’s only small,” Valeriya begged, her voice shaking. “He’s been talking about seeing the boats all week.”
“It was my fault,” Jesse added quickly. “I’ll look out for him better.”
“Damn right you will,” Colm snapped. He released Matthew from his grasp, and the child ran into Valeriya’s waiting arms. “I should’ve let you get on that boat, Matthew. Then you’d be sorry.”
“I am sorry,” Matthew said as he looked up at his father with youthful anger in his doe eyes. If Colm didn’t know any better, he’d detect a hint of sarcasm. “I won’t leave again.”
“You both will be on your best behavior,” Colm growled at Jesse and Matthew. “Or I will know about it.”
“Yes, sir,” Jesse replied gravely, nodding once.
Matthew stubbornly kicked at the gravel. “Yes, sir.”
“Look what you did to your mother!” Colm went on, reaching out to grasp the small boy by his shoulder and spinning him to look up at Valeriya. “She shouldn’t be frightened so in her condition. Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to her. Right now!”
Matthew peeked at Valeriya through his long lashes, his mouth in a slight, worried pout. “I’m sorry, mama.”
Valeriya muttered something in Russian, ruffling her son’s dark hair tenderly. “You stay close to me, my baby,” she insisted, retaking his hand. “If I lose you, I’m afraid your new baby brother or sister will get your bed. And your toys and books.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he replied with a determined frown. “Those are mine.”
“Make sure the boys keep out of trouble,” Colm said hastily, giving his sons a stern look. He passed the bags off to a porter and paid him without a glance. “And come back home to me. I don’t want to hear about you ending up in some Belarusian prison.”
Valeriya nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back before you know it. You take care of yourself. I don’t want to come home to my husband in Sing Sing.”
Colm arched an eyebrow. “Was that meant to be funny?”
“No.” She lightly swatted his chest. “I visited you in House of Refuge but will not visit you in prison. No more prisons for this family.”
“I didn’t know Ma visited you in the Refuge, Dad,” Jesse said, taking the passenger tickets his mother handed him while she fixed Matthew’s rumpled coat. His green eyes glimmered with intrigue as his father stretched uninterestedly.
“Daddy’s bad,” Matthew said quietly with another frown and accusatory point. “Я ненавижу тебя.”
Colm shot his youngest a look. “You speak English, Matthew.”
“Were you seeing Dad at the time?” Jesse said, defusing the tension. He looked from Valeriya to Colm. “Ma?”
Valeriya felt her face turn a hot shade of pink. “No, not really.”
“She made me nervous,” Colm said, shaking his head. “Comin’ and goin’ off the island like that. They might’ve locked her up, too. I wasn’t allowed to talk to girls.”
“You weren’t allowed to talk to girls?” Jesse echoed in confusion. “So then what did you do?”
Colm said, giving Valeriya a cheeky grin. “We mostly…” he stopped, clearing his throat when he caught Jesse’s mystified expression.
“What?” Jesse asked.
“Played?” Matthew ventured, standing on his tippy toes to get closer to the conversation.
Valeriya narrowed her eyes at Colm and shook her head. “Hugged. I gave him lots of hugs.”
“That’s right, lots of hugs,” Colm snickered, giving her a wink and playing along with the charade.
“Gross,” Jesse muttered, turning away. “I’m sorry I asked.”
Matthew pulled on his mother’s hand. “I want to go on the boat now,” he said impatiently, trying to drag her toward the gangplank. “Right now!"
Valeriya rolled her eyes. Colm leaned forward and caressed her face softly and lovingly. He bent down without hesitation and pressed his warm lips against hers.
“Look after your mother, boys,” Colm reminded his sons again. He angled his gaze toward Valeriya, softening the stern glare in his eyes. “And give my regards to your folks.”
“I will,” she whispered, tracing her face with a delicate finger. “And I will send you telegram when I reach Liverpool, darling. And every stop after.”
“I’ll live at that damn post office,” he said teasingly, then took her chin in his rough hand and kissed her again. “I love you, V.”
“I love you, too, моя дорогая.”
Colm watched silently as Valeriya and the boys boarded the steamship, his rugged demeanor betraying none of the emotions churning within him. His gaze pierced as he observed the bustling activity on the docks of New York City.
Valeriya turned back one last time, her eyes searching for Colm’s handsome face among those on the pier. When her gaze met his, a flicker of uncertainty passed through her expression, but she quickly masked it with a reassuring smile.
Jesse waved sadly. "Goodbye, Dad!" he called out, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness at the prospect of leaving his father behind.
Colm nodded in acknowledgment, a brief flash of pride glinting in his eyes. He raised his hand in farewell stoically.
Matthew let go of Valeriya's hand and clung tightly to the ship's rails, his eyes wide with excitement and trepidation. "Bye, Dad!" he echoed enthusiastically, his youthful exuberance a stark contrast to the solemnity of the moment.
Colm watched as they disappeared into the crowd, swallowed up by many passengers preparing to embark on their journeys. A heavy silence settled over him, the weight of their absence pressing down upon him like a leaden cloak.
But Colm was a man of steel, forged in the crucible of adversity, tempered by the fires of life in the rough streets of New York City. He squared his shoulders, steeling himself against the ache in his heart as he turned away from the departing steamship.
Chapter 28: Pale Pink Stockings
Summary:
With meticulous care, Colm picked up the pen and signed his name. He then glanced up at Valeriya and extended the pen towards her. "Your name," he said.
She hesitated, then stepped back, her veil billowing with her. "You write it," she replied. "Valeriya Konstantinovna Sevastyanova."
The melody of her name had always appealed to him, and he let it whirl in his mind for a moment before nodding. "You're going to have to spell that, sweetheart."
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
May 1873
Brooklyn, NY
Valeriya stood numbly at the altar, too nervous to fix the tulle veil under a wreath of blossoms in her long blonde hair. Mrs. Tess Tracey had graciously offered to pin it up properly, but there weren’t enough pins to secure it all. Tess had also lent the girl her bridal veil, a relic of the ‘50s yet pristine and free of moth bites. It smelled of pinewood and an old trunk. Tess insisted Valeriya wear it, saying it was tradition for the bride to wear something borrowed from the groom’s family. Valeriya had never heard of such a tradition.
Everything about this wedding was foreign. The language, the church, the priest, the guests. There were few guests to speak to. Mr. Liam Tracey, dressed in his uniform, brought several of his still-living comrades of the 69th New York infantry, and Tess invited her friends from St. Cecilia’s parish. Valeriya hadn’t met any of them before, nor was she sure she’d ever see them again after that day. They viewed the quiet Belarusian girl with suspicion, whispering as she walked past, talking behind gloves and closed lips, eyeing her up and down.
“Where’s she from again?”
“I can’t believe Tess is letting her precious son marry such a tramp…”
“What do they know about her family anyway?”
“Is she a Catholic?”
“Would you look at her face? That girl’s as frightened as a field mouse…”
“Well, you know why Liam blessed the marriage, don’t you?”
“I told Tess, the moment her son got off that island, he was in a bad way…”
“How long do you think until the annulment?”
Valeriya closed her eyes and inhaled the overpowering, near-nauseating scent of incense, suffocating the church like poison gas. She began counting, digging her fingers along the sharp grooves of the bouquet she held. Delicate, pale pink roses and white lilies. She wanted to hide behind them again like she used to on the street, selling them from an old, empty baby perambulator. Her arms would be laden with wildflowers, handpicked blooms, sprigs of baby’s breath, red roses, lilacs, and bluebells – standing on her corner rain or shine, giving her sweetest smiles.
That’s where Colm Tracey had first noticed her, sitting on the curb amidst the rain, surrounded by spring, looking like a ragged Persephone. She’d smiled at him from across the way, laughing at how he was trying to stay dry beneath a storefront canopy. He’d stared at her, breathless for a moment, stumbling over a whining stray dog and toppling a crate of oranges, earning shouts and swats with a stick from the vendor.
She’d been watching him for a while. She knew he had eaten at McCallie’s Saloon before crossing the street to work at Engine House 29, also known as the Liberty Bell 29. She knew he took a dime bath most evenings at the bathhouse, and he liked to walk down the street afterward, sometimes with a girl, sometimes alone, smoking, with warm spring air breaking sweat on his freshly washed face. She knew he often wore his braces at his sides at the end of the day, keeping his clothes somber and unadorned.
He first approached her that rainy March afternoon, offering her a stolen orange from the vendor’s cart. He’d smiled at her and introduced himself, asking for her name, too. His voice was rough and crackly, and when he echoed her name, it sounded like striking matches, even if he couldn’t pronounce it correctly. “Valeriya Sevastyanova. Pleased to meet you, Valeriya Sevastyanova.”
She hadn’t said much to him in return. Her tongue was tied, but she’d smiled, and he smiled back, and then he walked on. She thought he seemed taken with her. He’d winked at her, and she was desperate enough to hope that meant something.
Colm Tracey was a handsome devil, no doubt about it, with his jet-black hair and twinkling green eyes. But what tickled her fancy was how he always seemed to be in on some private joke, his lips forever curled in a mischievous grin. She couldn't recall a single time he'd crossed her path without leaving her with a smile plastered on her face. Folks took a shine to him despite his hoodlum ways. Rumor had it his old man was a big shot in the neighborhood, and maybe that's where Colm picked up his manners. He was the most courteous lad she'd ever encountered, always tipping his hat and minding himself, especially with her. That was more than she could say for most of the roughnecks she'd encountered in her brief stint in New York.
All in all, he was the closest thing to rescue Valeriya had ever seen. He’d taken her all around the city, shown the things she’d never dreamed of seeing before—magic lantern shows, homemade firework displays, vaudeville variety plays, all-night dances in the darkest and smokiest of halls. He introduced her to his friends, the lads at the firehouse, and lady friends as his best girl. She saw him most evenings until he vanished for two weeks, only to find him on a lonely island in the East River—for breaking windows and general disorderly conduct with a pal of his, Dominic Conlon. When Colm saw that she’d visited him that gray morning in April, he’d given her more than that trademark dimpled smile, which made her feel like she was the only one in the world besides him. He’d looked stunned, like a deity had greeted him. There was something sad in it. He’d shown off a new black eye and boasted how he’d withstood a fearsome lashing, and “Don’t be cross with me, V, I wanted to write you, but they don’t allow much time for correspondence, you know. Damn, it’s good to see you…I keep dreaming of you every night.”
He'd been different. Valeriya could sense it. She saw it in the way he spit and glared at the guards. She heard it in the way he swore up and down that he was delicate and more challenging than these island guard sons of bitches. He sensed how he’d pulled her through corridors and up staircases until they reached an alcove deep in the recesses of what he called the “ward twelve.” She felt it in the way he urgently bent her over the railing, lifted the layers of her skirts, and over and over drove home how much he wasn’t all right.
He hadn’t wanted her to leave, either. He begged for another visit, squeezing her hand and kissing her knuckles. “You’re an angel, V. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You have to keep comin’ back until I get out of here…You will, won’t you? Be a good girl and come back…”
The feeling of Tess Tracey’s hand on her arm made Valeriya flinch, rattling the bouquet. Valeriya summoned the courage to turn her head and meet Tess’s soft green eyes, finding solace in the way they twinkled and seemed to smile at her reassuringly. Tess adjusted the girl’s veil and ruffled out the back of the white wedding gown that seemed much too big.
After some negotiating, Liam found the dress at a second-hand shop in town and got it for half the price it was worth. It had only been worn once and had a small stain near the top. Tess had fretted over whether it was proper for Valeriya to wear a white dress. But Liam had contested that it was a proper wedding in a proper church, and the Lord didn’t mind what color it was.
The thirty-six-year-old woman’s dark hair was styled, parted in the middle, and pulled back in a low bun, with a few loose strands framing her face. She wore a coarse gray dress, the one she wore to mass most Sundays.
Valeriya liked Colm’s parents well enough. Liam was a strong-jawed Irishman whose dialect combined American and Irish slang from the Civil War. When he spoke, it was a deep, crackling voice from years of tobacco smoking. Usually sober and self-centered, he was then experiencing a rare moment of what appeared to be sympathy. His two brothers sat close to the back in the pews, and his three sisters whispered near the front. Their children sat quietly beside them.
The catholic priest, Father Anthony, stared expectantly at Tess, who shook her head and glanced at Liam pleadingly. The army veteran grumbled something under his breath and apologized to Father Anthony. Excusing himself, Liam turned on his heel and walked down the aisle to the back of the church, causing another low murmur to fall over the crowd of guests in the pews.
Valeriya flinched again as she heard the door at the front of the church open and close loudly. Tess’s hand continued to soothingly rub up and down the girl’s arm. They waited for another hour, what was minutes, until Liam returned, this time with Dom Conlon and twelve-year-old Cian Tracey, both in their church clothes.
Although still baby-faced, Cian looked older than he was because of his early growth spurt. Valeriya found him a loud-mouthed, foolish, and obnoxious extrovert with an intelligent reply to every question his parents asked. A skill he no doubt learned from his older brother. But Colm was quieter, slyer, and perhaps slightly more introverted at sixteen. The moodiness left him until he had a few drinks, and a ferocious confidence took over. He spoke in a broken, harsh, thief cant that Cian had begun mimicking like a parrot.
But to Liam, Colm and Cian were model sons who could do no wrong—before all the hard-drinking and whoring, that is.
Liam pulled along his eldest son Colm, whose bloodshot eyes and wrinkled suit told the wiser of the guests all they needed to know about his activities the night prior.
Colm set his jaw and barely looked at Valeriya when he reached the altar. His mother reached out to straighten his jacket, but Colm moved away, gently swatting her hand off him. Valeriya could smell the whiskey on his breath from where she stood. He stood tall and imposing in his suit, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor.
The priest cleared his throat and began the opening prayer. Valeriya tried not to faint, swaying slightly and closing her eyes. That’s when she felt Colm’s grip on her. She opened her eyes to his hand in hers, his thumb rubbing over the back of her hand soothingly. He still hadn’t looked at her.
When the priest finally came to the closing lines of the Gospel, Valeriya’s legs could barely hold her up. He announced the marriage rite and all the guests rose from the pews.
“Colm and Valeriya,” Father Anthony addressed them. “We gather here today to witness the union of this young couple, who stand before us in love and hope, seeking God’s blessing.”
Tess clutched her hands together, her knuckles white. Her eyes filled with worry and never left her son’s face. She could see the tension in his shoulders.
Valeriya took a deep breath, nervously looking around the congregation again. She glanced back at Colm, who stood tall and resolute beside her.
Father Anthony continued, “Marriage is a sacred bond, a commitment to love and support one another through life’s challenges. Colm, do you take Valeriya to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and hold, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, as long as you both shall live?”
Colm finally turned to Valeriya, his green eyes meeting her gaze for the first time that day. There was a moment of silence as his eyes scanned from her veil down to the hem of her dress. Then, gravelly, he said, “I do.”
Valeriya’s heart pounded in her chest as Father Anthony turned to her. “And Valeriya, do you take Colm to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold to honor and obey, in sickness and health, for richer or poorer, as long as you both shall live?”
The room felt too hot.
She swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper as she replied, “I do.”
The priest smiled kindly at them both. “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Valeriya’s eyes lifted. She felt everyone’s stares on her back. Her body wouldn’t stop shaking, and Colm’s grip on her hand tightened. As her gaze met his green eyes, she could tell he knew how frightened she was.
He bent down to bridge the inches he towered over her. There was no sign of hesitation, fear, or doubt on his face. He leaned in, his movements slow, but Valeriya lowered her face, and he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
“V…” Colm whispered, tilting her chin with his hands.
Valeriya peered up at him, her eyes wide. “Please, not in front of them…” she whispered back.
Colm looked out at the guests and then back at her. “Kiss me,” was all he said, and he held her face in his hands as he leaned in once more, capturing her lips.
Her lips quivered against his mouth, and his eyes drilled into hers when he drew back. A shudder rippled through her, and Colm's eyes briefly narrowed before a tight smile cracked across his face as they turned to the applauding guests.
Tess exhaled a breath she hadn't known she was holding, her heart swelling with uncertainty. Liam gave Colm a firm pat on the shoulder.
"Smile," Colm's lips brushed Valeriya's ear once more.
She stiffened but managed to force the brightest smile onto her face. In a blink, they were already walking away from the altar.
The reception was held at their new flat. Colm had scraped together every penny he could muster to cover that first month's rent with Liam's help. The flat was snug, almost a mirror of his parents' place.
In the parlor, a grand black chair stood as if holding a court alongside an ancient music box from Tess’s family and a little whiskey cabinet from Liam’s. Catholic relics and other such souvenirs adorned the room, with small family photos nestled beside painted portraits of Our Lady and the Savior. An American flag hung proudly upon the wall, while mismatched furniture cluttered about—worn-out sofas, doilies galore, scatter rugs, and trinkets aplenty. An old dresser lurked solitary in the corner, silently witnessing the passage of time.
The dining room awaited through an archway, centered by a hefty round table beneath a tarnished brass chandelier. A cabinet lined one wall, and a swinging door led to a makeshift kitchenette tucked at the rear.
Cracks in the plaster yawned wide, a testament to years of neglect and toil endured by those who had called this place home. The air hung heavy with the scent of age and decay, enough to turn Valeriya's stomach as she took it all in.
In the bedroom, Colm hunched over a large book, bending his head low over the intricate family tree. His eyes traced the names of his parents, penned in his mother's elegant, looping script: William James Tracey, June 10, 1837. Tessa Marie Tracey, October 16, 1838. Colm Fionn Tracey, April 2, 1858. Cian Chulainn Tracey, August 8, 1862. Kayleigh Ciara Tracey, February 28, 1864.
With meticulous care, Colm picked up the pen and signed his name. He then glanced up at Valeriya and extended the pen towards her. "Your name," he said.
She hesitated, then stepped back, her veil billowing with her. "You write it," she replied. "Valeriya Konstantinovna Sevastyanova."
The melody of her name had always appealed to him, and he let it whirl in his mind for a moment before nodding. "You're going to have to spell that, sweetheart."
He carefully printed her name beside his own, adding the date: July 18, 1874. Then, dipping the pen again, he handed it to his parents, steadying the book while Liam and Tess scribbled their names, almost unreadable: Wm J. Tracey, Tess M. Tracey.
It was done. Colm closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was over. No words were needed.
"Is it done, then? Is it real?" Valeriya asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Colm, eyes heavy with fatigue, heard the book snap shut and looked up to see Liam, the thirty-seven-year-old sergeant, grinning ear to ear. Liam extended his hand to Valeriya, who hesitated, her brow furrowed in confusion. When she finally took his hand, he guided her forward and nodded at Colm.
Colm understood his father's silent command and extended his hand. Liam placed Valeriya’s hand into Colm's with an almost ceremonial solemnity. The weight of that gesture struck Colm with an overwhelming sense of finality. This wedding, devoid of the tenderness and ease his best friend Dom Conlon would have brought had he been Valeriya’s groom, felt stark and bare. Dom would have whispered sweet words and reassured Valeriya with a smile before kissing her gently.
Colm stared at their joined hands, the reality of his marriage crashing down on him. He was married to her. She was his wife.
Abruptly, he let go of her hand, causing her to startle. Her eyes widened, then she managed to give a tentative smile. “So… we’re married?”
The word "married" echoed in Colm's mind, feeling impossibly weighty. He nodded, his throat too tight to form words. Liam’s hearty clapping broke the silence.
“You’re a Tracey now,” Liam announced with pride.
Valeriya moved around the table to stand beside Colm. “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice gentle.
Tess’s frown and a wave of her hand indicated she wanted to speak with Valeriya alone. Relieved, Colm backed towards the door.
“She wants to talk to you alone,” he whispered.
“By myself?” Valeriya repeated, her voice tinged with apprehension, as she watched him retreat.
He halted her with a wave of his hand. The air hung so thick he could scarcely draw breath. "I'll... I'll come back," he stammered, then swiftly departed, leaving her and his mother behind, hastening down the corridor to the main room where the guests convened. Bursting through the door, he nearly toppled into the room before collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table.
Shutting his eyes, he pushed her from his mind, disregarded the Bible, and let the unfamiliarity of his new flat envelop him, its pristine orderliness a solace. The presence of kin and companions filled the room, their voices blending around him. He drew deep breaths until his heartbeat slowed and the tight knot in his stomach loosened. Sitting upright, a sharp relief washed over him, leaving him almost light-headed. This was his flat, his sanctuary. Everything had changed, yet he was equal to it. So what if she was now his wife? He would cope. He always did.
But then, catching sight of Valeriya's trunk by the door, a cold sweat broke out. Mustering a feigned smile, he barely evaded his brother and curious guests, slipping out the door and down the stairs to the alley, where he hurled up his breakfast and the remnants of last night's gin.
Valeriya's legs ached an hour later as she and Colm stood conversing with the guests.
By now, Colm was very drunk. And Liam, for once, wasn’t far behind.
The words directed at the newlyweds were predictable: compliments for Valeriya's beauty and congratulations to Colm for marrying such a lovely wife—as though it were an accomplishment—followed by thinly veiled remarks about the hurried wedding. Only a select few guests beyond immediate family knew of the pregnancy, including Colm's aunts, uncles, and Father Anthony. Valeriya's concealed figure, tightly corseted within her dress, ensured that her condition remained discreet.
She flinched at the laughter, the voices, the singing, the foreign-sounding Irish folk songs. Liam stood with his arm around Colm’s neck, surrounded by four others of Liam’s friends, all laughing and talking at once. She sat in her gown still, holding her flowers, hiding behind them.
Valeriya felt her smile faltering, but Colm kept casting glances, silently urging her to maintain appearances. At last, Tess found her a seat, and the girl sank into it, nearly collapsing from weariness.
"Congratulations, Colm," a lofty woman's voice chimed in.
Colm and Valeriya pivoted towards it, his demeanor shifting ever so subtly.
"Mrs. McGowen," Colm acknowledged with a nod.
Despite Cian's attempts to engage her, Valeriya's gaze froze on the woman. She recognized her as one of Tess's church acquaintances, perhaps twenty-five, who had been gossiping with other guests throughout the ceremony.
Mrs. McGowen possessed an unsettling beauty: a thin nose, full lips, and a daring neckline. Casting a glance towards Valeriya, she leaned in and murmured something to Colm, his expression remaining impassive. Finally, she turned to Valeriya and drew her into an embrace. Valeriya fought the urge to stiffen.
"I should warn you," she whispered into Valeriya's ear while Colm was distracted by his friend's arrival, "Everyone here knows, and I reckon those absent do too. But fret not, dear, you're doing what's right. Colm's folks will have to weather the scandal—it's the least you can do." She withdrew and moved on to another guest before Valeriya could respond.
Valeriya felt the blood drain from her face. Colm turned away from Cian and absentmindedly reached for Valeriya's hand. She winced, but he clasped it firmly.
"Smile, V," he urged, squeezing her hand twice. "Keep on smiling. I’m right here."
May Fallon entered then, wearing her best calico dress. She carried a small bouquet of roses, which she handed to Tess absently. The girl sent Valeriya a wide-eyed grin and then hiked up to the 69th New York veterans with a flutter of her skirts.
In strolled, an older man Valeriya couldn’t rightly place, but she figured him as kin to Liam and Tess, lugging along his hefty field camera.
“Get a move on, man! Fetch more spirits, dammit!” hollered one of Colm’s uncles over the commotion, drawing loud cheers from the rest of the men.
"Hold your horses, lads!" Another uncle hollered back. "Gather 'round here first!" He began herding them to a corner. "Ol’ Joe’s fixin' to snap us all together!"
Excited murmurs and grumbles spread, folks begrudgingly obliging.
"To the devil with it!" Liam barked, stepping away from the pack. "I ain’t posin’ for no picture!"
"Aye, nor me!" chimed in another fellow.
Tess stood firm, blocking her husband's path. "Please, Liam, 'tis Colm’s wedding portraits!"
"Ah, come on, Liam," grumbled Mr. Cael Conlon, leaning on his crutches. "Ya gotta be in them! You're the groom’s pa!"
The uproar surged through the room, with Liam grumbling and reluctantly joining the bustling crowd of guests. Old Joe stood aside, adjusting his contraption of a camera on its tripod, poised for the shot.
"Come on now, boys," Dom rallied the men, bringing them together. "Hold on a tick, I need to hop in too!"
"Good grief, Colm," chuckled one of the men, giving him a friendly nudge, "Ya gotta stand next to your new missus!"
Laughter erupted, and Colm was gently maneuvered into place. Dom positioned him beside Valeriya, draping his arm around the young man.
"Steady now," the aged photographer intoned.
They froze, save for Colm, who couldn't quite keep still. The flash exploded after what felt like an eternity, blinding them momentarily. As sight returned, the group dispersed, groaning and jesting about their temporary blindness.
"Say, where's the drinks we were promised?" Cael demanded with a grin.
"Aye, aye!" Liam bellowed, seizing Tess’s arm. "Come along, Tessie, lend a hand, woman!" And with that, he guided her towards the kitchen amid the joyful chaos of the gathering.
May and Valeriya stood intertwined, arms encircling each other's waists, as Old Joe aimed his contraption to capture their likeness.
"Now then, listen up, all!" proclaimed a grizzled compatriot, clinking his fork against a glass. "We ain't here to overstay our welcome! Colm and his lovely bride have their plans!"
Laughter erupted boisterously among the guests, save for Valeriya, who remained visibly unsettled. May leaned close, murmuring solace, though Valeriya's nerves clouded her comprehension.
"Ah, none of that talk now!" intervened Colm's uncle Pat, his voice robust. "Look at the poor lass, she's blushing!"
"She don't seem too bashful to me!" jeered another, his tone rough and good-natured.
Liam and Tess emerged from the kitchen, bearing trays laden with whiskey glasses that swiftly found eager hands, prompting a cheer from the assembled company.
"Give the lasses a taste, Liam!" urged Pat.
"What’s that?" Liam straightened, his brows knitting. "Well, I should say not!"
Amidst the carousing, jeers erupted from the assembled crowd. Reluctantly, Liam proffered glasses of whiskey to Valeriya and May, prompting a chorus of cheers.
"Now, drink up, all of ya!" Liam proclaimed to the crowded room. "Plenty more where that came from!"
"God bless ya, Tracey, for your kindness!" Cael chimed in.
Liam slung his arm around his comrade and fellow veteran. "Aye, not every day a man sees his son wed!"
"Here, here!" Pat cheered. "And a finer bride ye won't find!"
"Aye, love's a funny thing, ain't it," Liam mused, taking a hearty gulp of whiskey, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. "There's my eldest lad... and the lovely lass who peddled flowers to me wife. They never fancied each other until Colm says, 'Dad, I love the flower girl'..."
Appreciative hoots and hollers erupted from the gathering.
"...And there she stands, not sayin' much! Can't blame her, bein' a Russian girl fresh off the boat no more than two years!"
The room filled with laughter and applause once more, echoing through the modest quarters of the new flat.
"...Well, I brought them together, I did. Says I, 'Once I was young myself, you know. And I hope I ain't forgotten how it feels to be young and in love... ' Valeriya,' says I, 'I know you’ve come from a place quite different from here, but I know the girl you are, too! I know you'll treat my Colm right... and that's what matters to me!' And so I say to them, 'Children, ye have my blessing.' And a finer lass you couldn't find, as you all know, gentlemen..."
At this, Liam nodded and took a sip from his glass of whiskey. There arose a chorus of 'hear, hear' and hearty applause.
Cael Conlon clapped Liam on the shoulder with affection. "Well, Liam asked me to make a speech, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna!"
"Aye, that's a miracle!" a man with a bushy mustache called out.
"Ah, enough from ya, Mike," Cael retorted with a slur of his words, swaying slightly on his crutches. "Truth be told, I ain't got much to say. Colm's been like a son to me for many a year, and... it warms my heart to see him settlin' down so soon. I wish you both all the happiness in the world. I'm meant to propose a toast... so gentlemen, if you'd rise and join me. 'To a gorgeous bride.'"
“Sláinte!” The crowd cheered and drank up.
Liam's friend, Mike, gave Colm a nudge in the side to the amusement of the rest. "You’ve gotta say somethin' now, Colm, or they'll think you've lost your tongue!"
"I ain't never been hitched before—how was I to know?" Colm swayed up from his seat with a chuckle, gripping the table with one hand and resting the other on Valeriya's slender shoulder. "But it's true. Comes a mite early in life for me, but I'll make a good man to her, you mark my words. Thank you, Mr. Conlon, for your kind words about my wife..." Colm glanced down at Valeriya, his eyes bright and cheeks flushed. "She's... a fine girl, and I reckon myself lucky." He wiped his mouth roughly with his sleeve. "And I think this here drink's gettin' the better o' me!"
"Ain't enough drink in New York for Colm Tracey!" Dom chuckled with a shake of his head.
Colm raised his glass to his friend. "Aw, to hell with you, Dom!"
One of Colm's uncles struck up a lively reel on his fiddle, and a woman from the parish started singing a joyous ditty, soon joined by others, even Mr. Conlon humming along.
"You're supposed to dance with your woman, Colm!" Cael's voice rang out merrily, prompting nods of agreement from the guests.
Two burly men hauled Colm toward Valeriya and May, who sat demurely on the settee. Valeriya blushed a delicate pink, casting down her eyes and giggling behind her bouquet. May nudged her eagerly.
"Come on, Val, you ought to dance with him!" May chimed in, her excitement almost causing her to spill her drink.
"I can’t," Valeriya protested softly, playfully pushing May away. "You dance with him!"
Laughter erupted among the men, and strong hands lifted her to Colm before Valeriya could resist further. He caught her firmly, and they stumbled together in an ungainly dance. Unfamiliar with the lively Irish melodies, Valeriya found herself twirling unsteadily as Colm attempted to lead in his drunken state. The guests burst into song, a spirited Irish ballad that spun Valeriya's head with its speed and cheer.
A seasoned companion of Liam's whisked Tess into a lively dance while Dom gallantly twirled May about the crowded room. With a sudden misstep, Colm stumbled into an elderly dame, tumbling gracelessly to the ground. Laughter erupted as his comrades, teetering in amusement, nearly joined him in his fall.
"Steady there, Colm!" Uncle Pat swayed, clutching a bottle with shaky hands.
"Look at our fine groom!" Cael chortled. "That's how you're supposed to start a marriage, right?"
The assembled men roared with amusement, urging Valeriya to coax Colm back onto his feet for another dance. Dusting himself off and rising to his knees, Colm quipped in his characteristic manner, "All I need now is another good swig of whiskey. That's the cure for a somethin’ like this!"
Uncle Pat mussed Colm's tousled, dark locks with a hearty laugh. "Fetch him a dram, Liam!"
"I'll fetch him a dram, sure enough!" Dom bellowed, his voice echoing through the crowded room like a thunderclap. With a mischievous grin, he upended the bottle, pouring its contents over Colm's head, much to the guests' raucous delight. "There you go, lad!"
"Now, that's a mighty waste of good spirits!" Colm exclaimed, shaking droplets from his hair.
"And that's no way to talk to your best man, Colm!" Dom shot back with a chuckle.
"Ah, you're a prick, Dom!" Colm collapsed in a fit of laughter, sprawling on the floor. "Give us a hand up, Cian, for the love of God!"
Amidst much tugging and laughter, Cian managed to haul his elder brother to his feet. Gradually, the merriment settled as the company caught its breath.
"I reckon it's time we made ourselves scarce," Cael remarked, reaching for his coat. "Leave the newlyweds in peace."
Liam stood staunchly by the doorway, his brows furrowed in disbelief. "What in blazes are ye saying, Cael? We've only just begun the gathering!"
Cael let out a derisive snort, prodding Liam lightly with his crutch. "Aye, I reckon Colm's got other matters occupyin' his thoughts, Liam."
The assembled men chuckled lowly, their eyes alighting mischievously, while Valeriya blushed crimson again.
"Nay, ye can't be leavin' so soon," Liam objected vehemently. "Bless my soul, we've drinks aplenty, and Tess laid out a grand spread!"
Uncle Pat rose from his seat, stretching leisurely. "It wouldn't be right to keep them, Liam. They have a mind to be by themselves."
"To hell with that!" interjected Liam.
"I know," Pat remarked with a friendly grin, "let's take it to my place. How's that, Liam?" He directed his query to the auburn-haired woman beside him. "Fiona, does that suit you?"
"Aye, Pat, you know I'm game," Fiona replied with a tipsy laugh.
"Right, then," Liam declared, gesturing towards the kitchen. "Come on now, Tessie, lend us a hand. Lord above, I thought we'd all lost our senses for a spell!"
Some of the guests followed Liam into the kitchen, eager to assist. Others began donning their coats and hats, preparing to depart. Meanwhile, Colm remained seated, appearing dazed and distant, his eyes unfocused and detached.
May turned towards Valeriya with a nod. "Well, I'll be off now, Val. Everyone's headin' out."
Valeriya reached out desperately, clutching May's hand. "Wait!" She widened her eyes, tilting her head pleadingly. "You don't have to go." Her veil fluttered as she turned, halting Tess before she could pass. "Mrs. Tracey, you leave, too?"
Tess adjusted her shawl and bonnet, her expression almost helpless, wishing to offer comfort to the girl but finding herself at a loss for words.
"We must, Valeriya..." Tess trailed off, attempting a smile for her new daughter-in-law, her hand gently caressing the girl's delicate face. "It'll be alright."
The group suddenly surged past, laden with sandwiches, bottles of spirits, and other provisions.
"Come along, Tessie, we're headin' to Pat and Fiona's!" Liam called back as he led the way out the door.
As the others departed, bidding their farewells, May leaned in close to Valeriya, imparting a whispered word before planting a kiss upon her cheek, then vanished amidst the others.
Tess cast a fleeting glance backward, hesitating momentarily before following Cian through the door. Lingering for a second longer, Dom peered back into the room with a raucous laugh, calling out, "Don't worry, Colm, you don't gotta use French letters this time!"
With a resounding slam, the door shut behind them, and the clamor of departing guests quickly ebbed away. Silence settled in, broken only by the soft sniffles escaping from Valeriya. The quiet was so profound that every heavy breath Colm took seemed to echo. He grumbled, knocking over a glass that shattered noisily upon the floor. Startled, he sat upright, suddenly aware that the room had emptied.
"What the... where've they all gone?" His head swayed as he struggled to regain his bearings, spotting Valeriya across the room, tears silently streaming down her cheeks, her gown and veil pooling around her. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he staggered towards her, attempting to steady himself.
Softly, he observed her for a moment. "Aw, you ain’t cryin’, are ya?" Colm walked closer to her side. "Oh, V, come on now, come on…" He reached down and lightly touched her arm.
Valeriya drew back.
"Don't be frightened of me," Colm persisted. "Come on…come 'ere…my head's killin’ me. I need you to help me to bed, darlin'…"
She glanced up at him, gathering her courage and dabbing away her tears.
Colm's face broke into a dimpled smile as he beamed at her. "There you go. It’s only me…" He extended his hand and gently helped her to stand. "'Atta girl…there's nothin' to be afraid of…"
Colm turned and walked towards the hallway, his steps uncertain yet determined. Valeriya followed cautiously, her movements tentative in unfamiliar surroundings. He paused, casting a glance over his shoulder towards her.
"I don't trust myself in the dark...can you help me?" Colm's voice was gruff yet pleading.
Valeriya stood beside him, her slight frame contrasting with his sturdy build. Colm gently leaned on her, his arm draped around her shoulders for support. In hushed tones, he murmured encouragement as they began their slow progress down the corridor.
"Easy now...that's it, good girl...good girl..."
Their steps echoed faintly in the quiet hallway.
Upon crossing the threshold into their chamber, his hand traced a gentle path down her spine, fingers lightly grazing her waist before seizing her rear with sudden ardor, his lips meeting hers hungrily.
Startled by the unexpected intensity of his kiss, the Belarusian girl whined, to which Colm responded with a hoarse, hearty laugh. “Valeriya… Konstantinovna… Sevastyanova… Tracey,” he chuckled in his rough manner. “That’s a fuckin’ mouthful, ain’t it?”
To her astonishment, Valeriya giggled through lingering tears, her blonde tresses cascading as her veil tumbled to the floor. Pulling him closer by the nape, she met his lips again eagerly. Colm quickly ushered her into the bedroom, closing the door behind them with a resounding thud, their laughter mingling with tears and kisses within.
February 1884
Brooklyn, NY
Effie Russo heard her mother's rocker creaking, the sound like a distant echo in the quiet of their opulent parlor. She listened keenly, knowing Regina Russo had risen from her seat, her footsteps barely audible against the plush carpet. The balcony door stood ajar, allowing the city's evening breeze to waft in, moist and refreshing. Effie counted the soft thuds of her mother's approach until she stood at the threshold, gazing into the deepening dusk beyond.
"Efigenia, carina, come inside," Regina's voice, soft as a Sicilian lullaby, urged gently. "The zanzare will eat you alive out there."
Effie lazily swatted at a pesky insect hovering near her face. "They aren’t bothering me much yet, Mama."
Ludovico Russo paused his whistling of an old tarantella long enough to add, "Do come inside, Efigenia. You've been out all night. You missed dinner. Your mama and I would like a word with you."
Effie resisted the urge to comply. She wasn't ready to face their inquiries. The night air was balmy, with hints of bonfire smoke lingering on every breath. She longed to remain there until darkness enveloped her completely, gazing at the pale moon above and dreaming of Colm Tracey. She imagined him crossing the street to her balcony like Romeo, a mischievous grin on his face as he looked up at her, his brow cocked, saying, "Effie Russo, come away with me, girl, and be my wife—"
"Efigenia, come on in," Ludovico Russo called out gruffly.
Effie sighed, her silk gown rustling softly as she rose from her seat. She brushed off the delicate fabric and approached the door. Her mother, elegant in her own right, stepped aside to welcome her daughter into the dimly lit foyer of their brownstone. The air was thick with incense, a shield against the summer flies that dared to intrude.
Ludovico, absorbed in a solitary chess game at the parlor table, barely glanced up as Effie entered. "You wore one of your best dresses into the city tonight," he observed, his voice tinged with reproach.
Effie felt a flush of embarrassment. "Yes," she replied evenly.
"And what prompted that?" Ludovico inquired, his brow furrowing.
She shrugged, avoiding her father's gaze and seeking solace in her mother's composed expression. "I simply felt like it. That's all," she murmured.
Ludovico lifted his eyes from the chessboard. "Are you seeking suitors now, Efigenia Giulia?"
Effie flinched at the formality of her full name. "No, Papa," she protested.
"Then why this extravagance?" Ludovico reached beneath the table, retrieving Effie's delicate white bonnet adorned with faux flowers. He set it down with a resounding thud, causing the flowers to sway like a breeze.
"A friend gave it to me last week," Effie explained quickly.
"And which friend might that be? A gentleman friend?" Ludovico's tone sharpened.
"A schoolmate, John Keane," she admitted reluctantly.
"Why would such a schoolmate be lavishing gifts upon you?" Ludovico pressed further.
"I... I had lunch with him," Effie confessed, turning to her mother for support. "Mama—"
"You talk to your papa about this, Efigenia," Regina intoned, retreating into the corner so deep she nearly vanished, leaving only the glint of her dark Italian eyes visible to Effie.
"What else, Efigenia?" her father probed, his voice tinged with concern. "What else did you bestow upon this schoolmate, John Keane?"
Effie gulped, feeling the weight of Ludovico's gaze from across the room, his attention fixed on her like a hawk eyeing its prey.
"What else, ragazza?" Ludovico pressed, his posture rigid.
"Nothing," Effie managed, her chest constricting with anxiety. She forced the words out, each syllable a struggle. "It was just lunch."
"Lunch," her father scoffed, his disdain palpable as it hung between them. He reached beneath the table, producing a strand of exquisite silver beads, and laid them before her. "And these? What of these, hmm?"
She had hidden those beads carefully, stashing them within her armoire, never daring to adorn herself with their brilliance, saving them for a day when she might wear them with a gown as resplendent as their shine at a place as grand as their elegance.
"I bought those with my own money," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
"With what?" Ludovico demanded incredulity etched into his features. "They cost more than your entire allowance! Or did your schoolmate furnish these for you as well?"
"Madonna," Regina interjected softly, her voice a mixture of resignation and concern.
Ludovico Russo's face darkened as Effie spoke, her words hanging heavy like cigar smoke in a crowded room. "No. I—" Effie paused, gathering her courage. "Walter Holbrooke gave them to me." The son of the judge whose family resided but a few blocks down from their grand abode. “He’s just a friend.”
"A friend," Ludovico muttered through clenched teeth, his hand dropping the chess piece with a clatter upon the marble table. He set aside his pipe, rising with a suddenness that startled the room. Before Effie could protest, he leaned forward and lifted her skirt with a swift, rough motion, revealing her delicate pale pink stockings. His eyes locked onto hers, brutal and unforgiving. "Where did these come from?"
Her gut twisted a cold fear gripping her heart. "Papa—"
He seized her chin, his fingers pressing into her skin with a force that stung. "I will ask you again, Efigenia Giulia, and this time, I demand the truth. Are you soliciting men?"
Tears threatened as Effie struggled to shake her head, but his grip held firm. "No," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I just…I just accepted the gifts, that's all. Just gifts."
With a sudden release, Ludovico let her chin go, his gaze cutting sharply to Regina, who had emerged from the shadows, her brow furrowed in concern. "Do you hear this, Regina? Just gifts," he sneered, turning back to Effie. "Gifts bought with flattery and folly. You know where such paths lead, girl? Keep on this road, and soon you'll be raising your dress for those boys, too—"
"Ludovico, please," Regina interjected softly, her voice tinged with reproach. "There's no need for this—"
"No need?" Ludovico erupted, seizing the beads and hurling them against the wall with violence that shattered the delicate string, scattering beads across the polished parlor floor. "You see what they're worth, ragazza? Nothing! Just the Devil's coin. But I suppose that's why you favor them, eh? Perhaps it's the devil's blood coursing through your veins. Trading away your dignity for trinkets!"
Effie stood, stunned and silent, as the weight of her father's words hung in the air, mingling with the echoes of shattered beads and the bitter taste of reprimand.
Her mother flinched, the sickness rising in Effie’s throat until she could barely speak. "It isn’t like that."
"No?" Her father settled heavily onto the bench, lifting her bonnet and flicking its flowers with a finger. "Suppose you tell me what it’s like, then."
"It was just baci—"
He motioned wearily to her dress. "You think that’s all it is, eh? Just baci? Look at you, ragazza. That isn’t a respectable dress. Your bosoms are nearly spilling out. Do you think they don’t see that? You think they don’t kiss you because they think they’ll get to touch those?"
Effie’s skin burned. She felt the heat, the smoke from the incense making it hard to breathe. She knew the men ogled her breasts, knew they hungered to touch her. Sometimes, she leaned closer, watching their eyes follow, flirting and laughing because she knew they’d shower her with gifts if she did. But her father made it seem so sordid…
"I am not a puttanella, Papa," she said evenly. "But I am not staying cooped up in this house forever. I won’t spend my life locked in my room."
"And you think this—" he waved the bonnet— "will get you somewhere better?"
"I think it’s just a bonnet," she retorted.
She glanced at her mother, standing by the stove with a bowed head. "But someday, someone will want to give me more than that. Someday, I’ll find a man to take me where I want to go."
Ludovico sighed heavily. "You’ve got to understand your place. Some things just aren’t meant to be. There isn’t a man alive who won’t whisper sweet nothings just to bed you—"
"Ludovico!"
"Well, it's true, and it's high time she knows it," he began.
"I know you, Efigenia. I know you have grandi sogni," Ludovico continued, his accent rolling gently through the room. "But if you think some gangster renegade will come and sweep you off your feet, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. The best you can hope for is to marry your kind, but even that won't happen if you keep trading kisses with John Kean."
Effie, however, was not thinking of John Kean or any of the other suitors whose affections she had lightly entertained. Her eyes flitted from her father, seated with fatigue etched upon his features, to her mother, a woman nestled in the confines of aristocratic obligation. Then, a name began to pulse insistently in her mind: Colm Tracey. The syllables echoed within her, a mantra of desire and defiance. Colm Tracey, Colm Tracey, Colm Tracey.
"I’ll show you, Papa. I’ll show you," she asserted softly, her resolve cutting through the heavy air.
Her father sighed again, fingers absently moving a chess piece across the board. The porcelain pieces whispered against each other in the quiet room, accompanied by the subtle scratching of her mother settling into the sofa. Effie's gaze wandered, fixated on the shadows cloaking the room, the brooding heaviness of its draped windows.
She was lost in contemplation and stared at the bonnet resting on the table, its delicate adornments blurred by the swirling incense smoke. It seemed as if the flowers upon it were wilting before her eyes, consumed by an unseen fire.
Through the dimness, Ludovico glanced at his wife, a silent exchange passing between them before he turned his attention back to Effie, his expression a mix of paternal concern and measured contemplation.
"There's another reason I wanted to talk to you tonight," Ludovico began slowly, his words hanging in the air. "You know, Efigenia, you're fifteen and soon sixteen. You aren't a little girl anymore. You're only a few years away from being a spinster."
"That’s never troubled you before," Effie murmured.
"Well, now, no, no. That was before I knew you were giving away kisses." Ludovico pursed his lips, eyeing his daughter with a hint of reproach. "Signor Alessandro Vittori called on me today. Thinks you’re molto bella, Efigenia."
"How would Signor Vittori know that?" Effie asked, her voice taut with skepticism. "He hardly ever even looks at me."
"He's a gentleman," her father retorted. "He’s got better manners than to stare at what you’re peddling to the rest of New York."
Effie crossed her arms, a defiant stance. "He asked for your hand in marriage, Efigenia," Regina interjected softly.
It felt like a bomb went off in Effie's mind. She gaped at her mother. "He wants...to marry me?"
"He's a good man, managing partner at Vittori and Sons, one of the most prestigious investment bankers in the East," Ludovico asserted. "He'll make you a fine husband."
"Papa— he's much older than me," she protested, the gravity of the situation settling heavily upon her.
"You've known his family for years. They are dear friends of ours. Is a comfortable and secure future not sufficient for you?"
Effie, her heart pounding with a mixture of anxiety and defiance, sought refuge in her mother's gaze. "No! I mean—" Her voice faltered, betraying the turmoil within her. "Please… you didn't… you didn't accept, did you?"
Ludovico's expression hardened, his gaze flickering towards the bonnet on the table. "What else was I supposed to do, eh?" he retorted with a sharp gesture. "It's about time I see you settled before you bring disgrace upon yourself."
"But Papa, not Signor Vittori." Effie's voice rose in protest, her mind conjuring the image of the man proposed as her suitor. A stern countenance etched with deep lines of disapproval haunted her thoughts. His mansion, an imposing edifice fifteen blocks distant, loomed in her mind—a forbidding structure, vast and forbidding as her current life threatened to become. "Not Signor Vittori," she pleaded quietly, shaking her head.
Her mother regarded her daughter with a mix of sympathy and resignation. "It's time for you to settle down, my dear," she murmured gently, her voice a soft counterpoint to Ludovico's sternness. "Signor Vittori will be calling upon you tomorrow. He has offered to court you properly—"
"I do not wish to be courted," Effie interjected firmly.
"You’ll do what I say, Efigenia, capisci?" His words were laced with a paternal sternness that brooked no dissent. "Signor Vittori will be your husband, and that is final. I’ve indulged your capriccio long enough. This will settle you well."
"Papa, please—" Effie's plea faltered against the unyielding force of her father's will.
"I am not changing my mind," Ludovico declared with unshakable conviction. "This is how it should be."
Effie, clutching at the last vestiges of her autonomy, dared one more appeal. "But it’s not what I want."
"I have allowed you too much freedom," Ludovico retorted. "You are spoiled, ragazza. It is time you learned what it means to be an adult. Signor Vittori is the right man to teach you."
Desperation surged within Effie as she glanced imploringly at her mother, Regina, whose silence spoke volumes. She felt her heart constrict with the weight of her father's expectations. Signor Vittori, with his clammy hands and overpowering cologne, represented a future tethered to the world she longed to escape.
Her mind wandered to Colm Tracey, the young man whose very existence defied her father’s plans. With a steadying breath, she conceded, "All right, Papa. I will allow Signor Vittori to see me if you wish."
Satisfaction flickered across Ludovico's features as he settled back into his chair. "I knew you would come to see reason."
"But I will not be coerced into marriage until I am ready."
Her father's brow furrowed in surprise, then softened into reluctant acceptance. "I suppose a few months to acquaint yourselves better won’t hurt."
"Precisely," Effie affirmed quietly.
"You are a good daughter, Efigenia." Ludovico resumed his distracted chess game, swatting absentmindedly at a stray fly. "Now, why don’t you retire for the night? It is late. Have Lorna pour you a bath."
Effie nodded obediently, slipping into the cool corridor, her mind racing beneath the watchful moon. She hesitated at the staircase leading to her room, her gaze drawn instead to the street beyond the mansion's imposing gates, where darkness beckoned like a clandestine ally. With a glance back at the shadowed parlor, she slipped noiselessly through the front door, her dress whispering against the silence of the night, her thoughts racing towards a future shaped by her desires and the fleeting chance for freedom that lay just beyond reach.
Colm Tracey leaned back in his creaky chair, lighting a rolled cigarette like saving it for the Last Supper. He took a drag, letting the smoke twist and dance around the room, making Dominic Conlon squint and flap his hand in front of his nose.
"You gonna play or just admire the haze, Tracey?" Dom grumbled, shuffling his cards impatiently.
"Put your money where your mouth is," Colm said lazily, pretending to check his watch with a flourish as if time meant anything in a game of poker. It read ten-thirty, but he couldn't care less. Tossing a coin into the pot, he drawled, "I'll call ya and throw another fiver for the fun."
Aldrich 'Al' Cohen folded early, muttering, "I'm out, boys."
Kevin Mahoney scratched his jaw, tossed his bet, and muttered, "I'm in for the ride."
Colm glanced at his hand—Ace of Hearts and King of Spades. The flop revealed a Three of Hearts, Eight of Hearts, and Ten of Clubs.
"Betting's on you, lad," Dom grunted, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Colm weighed his options and matched the bet, his pulse quickening as the Turn card was dealt—a Queen of Hearts.
With one card left, the River—a Jack of Hearts—sealed his fate. The men murmured in awe as Colm revealed his cards, a triumphant smile spreading across his face.
"Well, I'll be damned," Dom muttered, shaking his head. "Didn't see that comin'. Luck's on your side tonight, Tracey."
"Ain't it always?" Colm chuckled, sweeping up his winnings. Luck was finally smiling his way, and with every dollar he stacked, he could almost see Valeriya's eyes sparkling back at him. Just a few more hands, a few more bucks, and maybe, just maybe, she'd be coming home to him even sooner than expected.
“Another round of drinks, darlin’,” Kevin said to the pretty waitress who collected their empty bottles. “On me.”
The waitress, May Mahoney, smacked him with her dishrag while balancing the tray of plates. “One more round, and then it’s back to work with you. It’s getting busy in here.”
"Say, look at that," Dom said low and slow. "Ain't that Effie Russo again with Jenny Callaghan?"
Colm followed Dom's gaze. "Effie Russo," he mused, the name buzzing familiar. And there she stood, by the door, with Jenny Callaghan—a natural Bowery beauty if ever there was one. Effie, her pretty face all flushed, her brown hair cascading wild like a waterfall, which was out of the common. She was a sight, all right. Rising above the neckline of her daring dress, her bosom caught his eye. Colm recalled their earlier meeting. She wore a dress much like that, and he'd managed a nod or two when Jenny made the introductions. The thought crossed his mind—would her breasts spill if she bent over? It tickled him then and still did now as he turned back to his winnings.
"Ain't she just good enough to eat?" Al chimed in.
"Bet her kisses taste like candy," Dom grinned. "I reckon I might try my luck with them sweet I-talian tits tonight." He started to rise, and Colm caught Jenny’s wave just as she spotted them.
"Well, I'll be damned," Al chuckled. "Looks like Jenny’s got you on her dance card, Dom."
"Aw, quit your talk," Dom shot back, rolling his eyes. "If you boys play your cards right, I might just share a dance or two."
Colm grinned broadly, his eyes twinkling as he gathered up his cards, shuffling them lazily while watching Effie Russo and Jenny Callaghan make their way to the table.
"Well, if it ain't two fine ladies gracing us with their presence," Colm said, tipping his hat mockingly to the women as they approached.
Effie's voice had a certain breathless quality, a sound that could make a man's heart flutter faster than a riverboat paddle.
"Evenin', Miss Callaghan, Miss Russo," Colm greeted, his voice thick with the unmistakable coarseness of the Lower East Side. Jenny exchanged nods with his friends, Al and Kevin, who were eyeing Effie with unabashed admiration.
Effie came closer, close enough that Colm could feel the soft brush of her skirt against his knuckles as he laid down his cards, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, his gaze locking with Effie's.
"A bit late for your highfalutin' friend to be out, ain't it?" Dom remarked to Jenny with a crooked smirk, and his words tinged with a hint of playful challenge.
Effie's cheeks flushed pink, her smile widening to reveal white teeth that were maybe not perfect but charming. Colm couldn't help but notice how her smile transformed her face, making him momentarily ponder what it would be like to trace his tongue over those teeth. Effie Russo was like a siren in a snug corset, and Colm could see why his friends were practically salivating at her presence.
Jenny chimed in, adding her brand of streetwise humor. "Pa sent me out on a little errand, but he won't mind if I'm late. Doubt he'll be seein' straight enough to notice."
Colm chuckled lowly, the joy dancing in his eyes as he leaned back in his chair.
Effie Russo turned her gaze squarely on Colm Tracey, her voice soft as silk but firm as steel. "My papa won’t be pleased," she murmured, eyeing Colm. "Looks like I'll be going home alone in the dark."
Dom scratched his chin, eyeing Effie with a smirk. "Well, now, I think—"
Effie turned her back on him, a deliberate snub that spoke volumes. She'd set her cap for Colm, clear as day. And Colm, weary of poker and up for a bit of diversion, found teasing sweet Effie a welcome change. Teasing Dom and Al was always a good sport, too. He grinned, rubbing his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "We sure wouldn't want that, would we, boys?"
Al leaned in eagerly. "I'd be more'n happy to—"
Colm raised a hand to halt him. "No need, Al," he said. "I reckon I'm done for the night anyhow, Miss Russo. It'd be my pleasure to see you home safe and sound."
Effie widened her eyes in surprise, and Colm's grin widened in response. "Well, isn’t that just very kind of you, Mr. Tracey," she replied with a hint of a smile.
Dom shot Colm a knowing glance while Al sighed and settled back in his chair. Kevin Mahoney chuckled, shuffling the cards. "Mind fetchin' us a fourth player on your way out, Tracey?"
"Well," Colm said gravelly, "I'll do what I can." With a deft flick, he gathered his winnings, stuffing the cash into his pocket and grinding out his cigarette. Extending his muscled arm to Effie, she sidled close enough for him to catch a whiff of jasmine lingering on her skin. He reckoned if he didn't watch his step, he might trip over her fancy skirts.
"Later, boys," he tossed a nod to his cronies. As they headed for the door, Colm slipped a dollar to the bouncer, telling him to find a fourth man for the card table. Then, under the cloak of the fantastic, quiet night, he and Effie slipped outside.
Her grip tightened on his arm, and her gaze upturned, hair cascading back to reveal a face lit with curiosity. "Are you considering staying in New York long-term, Mr. Tracey?"
Colm's lips curled into a bemused grin at her peculiar query. "Born here, miss," he replied, taking in a lungful of the river's salty scent, a balm after the saloon's haze. Tilting his hat back, he let the breeze tousle his hair. "Guess I got used to it."
"Why stay?"
Her voice, lilting and foreign yet so polished, almost British, danced in his ears. He liked the way she rolled her words. "Can't rightly say," he mused. "Just feels like I should always be here, I s'pose."
"Is it true what they say? About you saving over a hundred lives as a fireman?"
He chuckled, noting the fascination in her tone. Miss Effie Russo, as transparent as glass. "Reckon, that's about right," he admitted.
She sighed, and he watched her bosom rise and fall with each breath. Those wide, innocent brown eyes found him again. “Do you think you might settle down someday?"
He'd plum forgot how often women had asked him that question. Colm had gotten used to shooting back the answer, usually with a flick of his wedding band. But this time, he tucked that left hand into his pocket and muttered, "I guess I ain't the settlin' kind, Miss Russo."
He expected to see that light in her eyes fizzle out like it always did. No woman alive didn't think she could rope in a man like him, and Colm was dead sure Effie Russo was no different. But her eyes didn't dim any. They twinkled bright as stars, and she flashed him a grin—such a big grin, Colm couldn't help but grin right back to his surprise.
"Well, I suppose I understand exactly how you feel," she chirped. "Why hide away when the world's full of places to see?"
He'd tagged along with his friends that night for one thing and one thing only—making a bit of cash. But now Colm found himself staring down into Effie's warm eyes, thinking about things he hadn't planned on—like that easy smile and that dress clinging to her curves just so.
He tore his gaze away, letting it wander to the star-studded sky. "I dunno about that. There ain't no city like New York."
Effie drew herself closer, so close her skirt rustled against his boots, and nestled her bosom against his arm. "Oh, is that a fact?" she sighed. "I hail from Italy, you see. And I can assure you, there's a whole wide world beyond New York."
In the dim glow of the gas lamps, Colm Tracey was drawn into Effie Russo's gaze, a glint of something he couldn't quite place—her voice, soft and tinged with a longing that tugged at his rough-edged heart. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the worn leather of his boots, now splattered with mud from the evening's revelry.
He stole another glance at her, catching sight of her delicate petticoat peeking out beneath the cotton of her skirt and pale pink lace stockings that spoke of privilege and refinement—a stark contrast to his rugged attire, dirtied and worn from the streets of downtown.
With her bright eyes fixed on the starlit sky, Effie Russo spoke of constellations and dreams with laughter that echoed through the night air. Colm couldn't help but be intrigued despite his instincts warning him against such thoughts. What was a highfalutin uptown girl doing out here, conversing under the heavens with a married firefighter from the slums?
He chuckled inwardly, dismissing his curiosity as foolishness. She was nothing more than a pretty bird, fluttering about in search of excitement, like so many others he'd encountered. Just another poor little rich girl yearning for something beyond the gilded cage of her upbringing.
He couldn't rightly say what drew him to her. Maybe the silk stockings or the look in her eye spoke of something more. Either way, she stirred something powerful in him he couldn't rightly name.
The notion unsettled him, so he kept his gaze away from her as she chatted on, avoiding those curves that shone so bright under the moonlight. He kept repeating to himself that he didn't need another woman, not with Valeriya coming home from Belarus in three months with their two sons and a new baby.
He muttered these thoughts down the street, from the rough corners of the city to the tidier parts of Gramercy Park. Effie insisted she could make it the rest of the way alone, and he stood watching as she dashed off into the night, her dress vanishing like a ghost in the distance.
Yet, even as he trudged back to his humble flat, thoughts of Valeriya lingered heavily on his mind. And he had to work harder than usual to conjure her image that night.
Colm spotted her again the following day. He talked with Dom Conlon right before Sanderson’s Grocery, chatting casually about the weather and stocks, even though he couldn't tell a rat's tail about either. She was tucked away in the alley between McCallie’s and the Gilded Lily dance hall, clinging to the shadows like a secret. Colm pretended he didn't see her at first, but from the corner of his eye, he watched her inch forward, pressing herself against the wall like she wanted to stay hidden but couldn’t resist listening to their banter.
Dom was rambling, “…buying on margin like fools,” he droned. “I read that in—”
Colm couldn’t stand it anymore. He turned toward her. “Miss Russo!” he hollered.
Her head jerked up, brown eyes wide as a deer caught in the lamplight. She stiffened, all wary-like. He gave her a grin and waved her over. “Miss Russo, come on over here a minute.”
Dom glanced in her direction, his face twisting into a scowl. “Her again?”
Colm ignored him, fixing his gaze on Effie as she stepped from shadow to sunlight. She was wearing a white bonnet with fake flowers perched on top. It was a fancy, new thing, making her look out of place in that crisp, clean dress, different from the night before and that shiny new bonnet amidst the filth. She moved slowly, hesitantly, each step showing a flash of pale pink lace at her ankles, the gentle jostle of her bosom above the low neckline.
“Good morning, Mr. Tracey,” she said softly as she got closer, her smile shy and uncertain. She gave a nod to Dom. “Good morning, Mr. Conlon.”
“Miss Russo,” Dom muttered, barely nodding, his eyes glued to her chest. “You’re in town early this morning.”
"I... uh... had to pick up some things for Mama," Effie stammered, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink against her porcelain skin.
Dom, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, shifted his gaze from Colm back to her. "You've been wanderin' 'round without a chaperone lately, ain't you? Parents not too worried about that?"
Effie met Dom's piercing, icy stare, a flush creeping over her face, but she didn't waver. "I don’t mind," she replied, then turned her attention to Colm, a mischievous smile on her lips. "Not lately, anyway."
There was no mistaking her meaning. Colm fished a cigarette out of his pocket, taking his sweet time. "Well," he said, "you needin' an escort home this fine mornin', Miss Russo?"
She shook her head, her dark curls bouncing. "No," she said. "But… gee, somethin' sure smells good, doesn’t it?"
For the first time, Colm noticed the rich aroma of coffee wafting through the air.
"Just McCallie's," Dom grumbled. "It's coffee."
"Oh," Effie said with a light laugh, her eyes fixing on Colm. "Well, it sure smells delightful. Makes a girl hungry."
Colm nearly chuckled at her boldness. He tucked the cigarette back into his coat without lighting it. "I was just headin' to breakfast, Miss Russo. Care to join me?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them, but the wide smile she gave him made him oddly glad he did.
"I'd like that," she said, slipping her hand through his arm and pressing close like she had the night before.
Colm cast a glance at Dom. "You wanna come with us, Conlon?"
Colm felt the way she stiffened against him as a sudden chill had struck her, and Dom, who was watching her, frowned and shook his head. “I got work,” he said, a touch of impatience in his voice. “And I don’t suppose your mama will be too thrilled about you skipping your shopping errands, Miss Russo.”
“I’ll thank you for minding your affairs, Mr. Conlon,” she replied sweetly, her voice like honey.
Dom scowled at her momentarily, then tipped his hat to Colm and sauntered off. Effie’s fingers tightened on Colm’s arm, her grip firm despite her delicate appearance.
“How about that breakfast?” she asked radiantly, a glimmer of determination in her eyes.
Colm didn’t waste much time wondering where to take her. A proper lady wouldn’t dare set foot in McCallie’s for breakfast, but Effie insisted. When he led her into the saloon, the regulars glanced their way, brows raised. The waitress, May Mahoney, shot him an odd look but held her tongue as Colm guided Effie to his usual table by the window. He pulled out her chair with a flourish, and she settled herself neatly, spreading her skirts like a duchess. The gesture looked effortless on Effie, though it struck a ridiculous contrast with the rough-and-tumble patrons around them. The flowers on her bonnet bobbed with the movement.
“I’ve never dined here before,” she confessed. “You’ll have to tell me what to get.”
Colm motioned to May, who glided over, coffee pot in hand. She filled a cup before Colm, then hesitated, eyeing Effie with a hint of suspicion.
“Coffee or tea?” she asked, her tone flat.
Effie smiled up at her, bright and cheery. “Coffee, please.”
May looked back at Colm, one brow raised. “You want your usual, Colm?”
“Yeah, the usual,” he replied, leaning back in his chair, trying to act casual. “And whatever the lady wants.”
Effie glanced at the menu, then back at Colm, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “What’s your usual, Colm?”
“Just some eggs and bacon,” he said, shrugging. “Nothin’ fancy.”
“I’ll have the same, then,” she declared, closing the menu with a decisive snap.
May nodded, jotting down the order before strolling back to the kitchen. Colm watched Effie, a mix of amusement and admiration in his eyes. This high-society girl was out of her element yet carrying herself gracefully and confidently. He couldn’t help but be drawn to her, even as he wondered what on earth had brought her into his world.
“Ya know,” he said, leaning forward, “you don’t gotta do this, Effie. Ain’t no one expectin’ you to slum it with the likes of me.”
She looked at him, her eyes steady and severe. “Maybe I want to, Colm. Maybe I want to see what it’s like.”
Colm couldn’t argue with that, so he just smiled and sipped his coffee, feeling a strange warmth spread through him. This girl was something else, all right. Something else entirely.
The coffee was hot and black and tasted like tar, so Colm Tracey visited McCallie's Saloon daily. Their food wasn't as good as half the other places in town, but that coffee was so bitter it could raise the hairs on a dog's back. It took him back to the days of his youth, his father's rough brew and those early mornings hustling newspapers with Cian before the sun had even thought about rising.
Effie Russo, seated across from him, took a dainty sip and immediately choked. “My goodness, that’s quite strong,” she exclaimed, her voice all proper.
Colm’s reverie of childhood memories dissolved into the smoky saloon air. He grinned at her, a rogue's twinkle in his eye. “Drink it up. It’s good for your bones.”
“Is that so?” Effie’s eyes sparkled with amusement. She took another cautious sip, managing to clear her throat. “Why, I suppose you’re right, Mr. Tracey. I already feel quite formidable.”
“Atta girl,” Colm chuckled, leaning back in his chair.
He chuckled a low rumble that drew a few glances from the rough crowd in the saloon. The sight of her perched primly on the edge of her chair, corset cinched tight enough to choke a horse, and that ridiculous bonnet perched atop her head was something. He recalled the stern warning he'd given himself to avoid her the night before. His thoughts flitted to Valeriya. Beautiful Valeriya.
But then Effie laughed, a light, musical sound, at the spectacle of a carriage driver struggling with a stubborn passenger just outside. At that moment, Valeriya slipped from his mind. By the time May plunked down their eggs and bacon, he was lost in a daydream about Effie. He imagined whisking that bonnet off her head and peeling her out of that constricting dress—
May's arrival with their food snapped him back to the present. Effie picked up her fork and knife, attacking the bacon with the delicate precision of a lady, though the bacon resisted, tough as shoe leather. Her entire frame tightened, and her breasts jiggled with the effort to cut it. Finally, she managed a bite and chewed and chewed some more.
He laughed again, leaning back in his chair. "So tell me, Miss Russo," he said, a smirk playing on his lips. "What do you get up to in your fancy part of town?"
He liked watching her speak. Her chocolate eyes got that dreamy, distant look, and how she seemed to forget herself entirely.
"You don't want to hear about my life," she said, a slight frown of distaste creasing her brow. She sighed, elbows off the table, and leaned forward. "I've always wanted to travel more. We used to, you know. When I was a little girl, we had a house in Tuscany."
"What happened to it?" he asked, genuinely curious despite himself.
“Well,” Effie said, her voice as smooth and polished as a freshly minted coin. “Back in the day, it was mostly countryside, you know. I suppose it still is in some parts.” She picked up her fork and prodded at the meat on her plate, her thoughts drifting back to old tales. “Papa used to say there were criminal rings, briganti, and gypsies about, but I never laid eyes on any of them. Sounds like the sort of excuse grown folks make up. Anyway, we packed our bags and made our way here. Been here ever since.”
Colm slumped in his chair and gave a casual nod. “There’s worse spots to land, ya know.”
“Maybe,” Effie replied, lifting her eyes to meet his. Her smile was crooked and playful. “But I’ll bet those places aren’t half as dull, at least not at first. You’ve been all over this city, haven’t you? Seen all kinds of things. Bet you’ve even run into some gangsters.”
“Mm, a couple,” Colm said, leaning back with a shrug, the picture of nonchalance.
Her eyes widened with curiosity. “Really? Tell me about them.”
“Ain’t much to tell,” he said.
“Oh.” Effie’s disappointment was palpable, but she didn’t press further.
Colm entertained the fleeting notion of concocting some grand tale to satisfy her curiosity, but the effort seemed too burdensome. What he truly yearned for was to find a way to slide those pale pink stockings down her thighs and kiss her until she was breathless. The mere thought of it left him stunned. Gradually, he coaxed his wandering mind back to her prattling.
"...And Papa always says the briganti are just ordinary men, that the government wronged them, driving them to a life of crime. But I believe he’s scared of them." She turned those sparkling eyes on him, delivering a soft, flirtatious smile that pulled a grin from him in response. "I'll wager you've never been so scared you'd run away from danger like that."
He let out a sudden laugh. "Hell yeah, I've been that scared."
"Have you ever been mugged?"
He shook his head. "Nah."
"I haven’t either. But they don’t venture uptown much. Papa says they’re mostly downtown."
The way she said it, Downtown as if it were a grand destination marked on some map, akin to Atlantic City or Pennsylvania, struck him as laughable. Her ignorance of the city was almost charming. Instead of laughing, he merely responded mildly, "Not so far from uptown. Being a crook doesn't make much sense if nobody is worth robbing. You rich folks keep them in business."
"You say that like you know."
Colm shrugged.
"How would you know?"
As he felt her gaze bore into him, Colm shifted uncomfortably, her intense stare making him uneasy. Her dark brows knit together, creasing her forehead delicately, and her delicate features seemed almost chiseled by goddesses beneath her smooth skin.
The hunger stirred deep within him. Colm pushed his coffee away and grabbed his billfold. "Let's leave," he muttered gruffly, tossing some coins onto the table.
She didn't flinch. "Very well," she replied calmly, rising from her seat. The dainty flowers on her bonnet swayed as she moved, starkly contrasting her surroundings. It's such a remarkable sight. As she approached him, she reached out and clung to his arm. His muscles tensed involuntarily. Colm swallowed hard, fighting the urge to pull her into the shadows and take her against a wall.
Stepping onto the street, he glanced down the block towards his flat. It wasn't far. They could slip away into his quiet room with just a few more paces. The whole afternoon lay before them—
Effie suddenly pulled away, startling him. He looked down at her in surprise. She gazed up at the buildings, panic flickering across her face like a summer storm. She managed a faint smile, her hands twisting nervously in her skirt. "I... I must go. Thank you for the meal. It was very kind."
With that, she left abruptly, turning away before he could protest. Her skirt fluttered, revealing glimpses of pale pink lace stockings above her boots. Clutching her bonnet, she hurried down the street, disappearing into the shadows between McCallie's and the Gilded Lily. Colm stood there, watching until she vanished from sight.
Colm Tracey craved a smoke, a desperate itch gnawing at him. He fished a half-burnt cigarette from his pocket, gnawed off its end, and wrestled with the wind to get it lit. Finally, a flame caught, and he drew in the smoke, drifting aimlessly down the bustling street, his thoughts clouded by frustration. The day stretched long and lonely ahead, but he shrugged it off. Effie Russo was a beauty, but as Dom said, she ought to be hitched and tucked away safe somewhere before she tangled up some poor sap.
He clamped down on the cigarette with gritted teeth, glancing back towards the alley where she vanished, shadows swallowing her up. A shiver tickled his spine, wondering about the worry etched on her face. Where did Effie Russo call home amidst the grand brownstones lining the millionaire’s row? But then, he figured he best not dwell on that.
Hands in his pockets, Colm pivoted on his heel, sauntering off towards the Liberty Bell 29.
Effie Russo hurried down the bustling avenue, nearly stumbling over her feet. The sun blazed overhead, casting a shimmering shadow across the vendors' carts laden with wilting fruits, their fragrances heavy in the air. She hadn't intended to stay away so long, forsaking her scheduled piano lessons. Her only desire had been to steal another glance at Colm that morning, to observe his daily routine and recall the tender words he had spoken the previous night and the gentle smile that had warmed her heart. She longed to cherish those memories, weaving them into her thoughts like a private melody to make the day pass swiftly, to think of that night under silk sheets.
But when he called to her, it was as if a dream had materialized, erasing all thoughts of parental displeasure and the looming consequences of delay. Effie rounded the street corner in a rush, catching sight of the grand silhouette of her family's mansion shimmering in the winter sunlight. She spotted her mother's figure and beyond her father's imposing form. Dread tightened her chest. Ludovico would surely unleash his fury when he looked at her, and she lacked any substantial excuse for her delay. Despite the morning's developments, it was too early to entangle Colm in her family's affairs.
Upon reaching the front porch, her mother straightened, shading her eyes before signaling to Ludovico. Effie braced herself as her father approached, adjusting his hat and squinting in her direction.
"Where have you been gallivanting?"
"Shopping in town," Effie remarked, watching him closely, expecting a flare-up.
But he nodded toward the house. "We'll discuss this later. Right now, you should head inside."
Effie furrowed her brow. "And why's that?"
"Didn't you remember what I mentioned last night? Signor Vittori's been waiting an hour and a half. He hasn’t got it all day. You better go in and make it nice."
"Is he here now?"
"He's been sitting there like a statue. A busy man, Efigenia Giulia. You had better apologize and pray he's still willing to listen."
Effie glanced through the window into the parlor. There sat Signor Vittori, stern as a judge, perched on the sofa, his thinning brown hair neatly combed. Her stomach twisted, but she nodded at her father and entered the parlor. Signor Vittori awkwardly rose when she approached. At just thirty years old, he seemed older still, every inch of him rigid and severe.
"There you are, Efigenia," he greeted, flashing a crooked grin. His teeth, though straight, bore the marks of nicotine. "Where've you been? I expected you at your piano lessons."
"I was shopping," she replied, attempting a smile. "Running errands for Mama."
"Well, enjoy it while you can because once we're wed, you'll not run about the city without a chaperone, like a proper wife."
Effie averted her gaze. "I don't recall agreeing to be your bride just yet."
"I don't see any other suitors at your door."
"Perhaps they don't think I'm ready to marry."
"That may be," Vittori conceded amiably. "But if you keep this up, you might not get better offers."
Effie shot him a sharp glance. "What do you mean?"
Vittori shrugged, his stiff posture making his shoulders almost touch his ears. "I'm only saying, if you keep flirting and frolicking with those boys at school, you might have limited options."
Effie regarded him coolly. "So I should consider myself fortunate that you're interested in marrying me."
He sighed heavily. "All I'm saying is, you've got quite a reputation."
"And I suppose you're my knight in shining armor."
He shook his head. "I don't want to see you make a mistake, Efigenia."
Effie remained silent, weighing his words with a sense of unease.
"Well, now, I am not one to toot my own horn, but that's how I suppose it'll be," Vittori said, scratching his neck with a thoughtful air. "Things will shape up once we're betrothed. No more tearing around town at all hours in tight little dresses. You'll be my wife, and I have my reputation to uphold."
"Oh," Effie replied coolly, "wouldn't want to tarnish your fine reputation."
Vittori pushed himself off the sofa, settling his gaze on Effie. "I aim to be fair with you, Effie, more than I can say for most men in these parts. I’ve got my own money, not looking to ride on your parents’ coattails."
Effie glanced out the window, her arms tight across her chest. She watched her mother pluck an icicle from the window box, her glossy hair catching the sunlight.
"—I'm willing to take the risk, but plenty of men marry you just for the family title."
A pang of shame heated Effie's cheeks despite her resolve. It seemed to steal all her spirit—her anger, her fear. She swallowed hard. "I'm aware of that," she murmured.
"I mean fair business," Vittori persisted.
"You already said so."
"I'll strive to keep you out of harm's way, Efigenia. Understand your tender ways, and I reckon, with some prayer, the Lord might help us rise above it."
He took her hand, his touch smooth and cool. "I'll treat you right, Efigenia. Follow my lead, and I believe you'll make a fine wife."
Effie couldn't resist a touch of sarcasm. "Are you sure you're willing to take that gamble?"
“Well, a man’s got to take some chances in this world to get what he wants." Vittori gripped her hand firmly, staring straight into her eyes with his squinty gaze. "And what I want, Miss Efigenia, is you."
She laughed humorlessly, withdrawing her hand carefully, resisting the urge to wipe it on her dress. "You want me, Signor Vittori? Or is it something else you're after? You needn’t marry me for that."
"I want you," Vittori asserted firmly. "I need a wife. Your papa tells me you know how to run a household. Seems to me that will suit my needs just fine." His gaze shifted uneasily. "And I haven’t heard tell of any man claiming you’ve... well, you know what I mean. You’re still... intact."
Effie arched her eyebrows. "Intact?"
"I’ve heard it’s only kissing you’ve been doing," he said sharply. "You tell me straight, Efigenia, that’s the God’s truth?"
She had assured her parents the same just last eve, but hearing it from Vittori soured her stomach. She despised the feeling and resented him for stirring it. "I suppose you’ve made up your mind already," she replied coolly.
Vittori took a deep breath. "You ponder on it, Efigenia," he urged. "There aren’t many men eager to take on a girl with your reputation. I don’t see anyone lining up to court you—at least not in a respectable way. But I am. I’m asking you to be my wife without your permission."
He glanced toward the door, pulled out a cigar from his pocket, and struck a match to light it, taking a thoughtful puff before nodding to her. "I best get back to the office now. You think about what I said. I’ll be back tomorrow, and we can start the engagement properly."
Effie Russo stood in the doorway, watching him stride away. The world seemed to shrink to just him—a man of stern countenance and simmering anger, his thinning locks catching the sunlight. She foresaw her future then: bound to a wealthy man like her father, wrapped in the embrace of her parents’ circle, bearing children who might inherit her mother’s lustrous hair and dark, regal eyes. The prospect stifled her. She sensed she would never earn their respect. Marrying Vittori would trap her forever in this gilded cage.
Under the relentless New York winter, the air thickened with a cold wind, pressing down on her thoughts. Another year in this stifling existence was unthinkable. She refused to become Alessandro Vittori's obedient wife, eternally grateful for taming her "frivolous ways."
Glancing at her parents conversing in hushed tones, Effie lowered her gaze to her boots, lifting her skirt to reveal pale pink lace stockings peeking beneath the modest hem of her slip and gown. She recalled how Colm Tracey had studied them, his sudden interest palpable.
She recognized that look—the lust she'd seen in many others' eyes. Colm Tracey could want her. He might whisk her away from this life if he wished to her enough. Ludovico had accused her of being a harlot, a claim she vehemently denied. But her options narrowed: Vittori demanded purity, while Colm belonged to a world apart from hers. She decided that if freedom required more from her, she would do whatever it took.
When Colm roused from his slumber the next dawn, thoughts of Effie lingered like the last embers of a dream. She was the first thing on his mind as he greeted the day, her touch and scent vivid in his memory. After washing and dressing, he descended the creaky steps of his tenement into the glaring sunlight. With a squint, he tipped his cap low, scanning the bustling street for a glimpse of her, unconsciously striding toward McCallie’s for a bite.
The barkeep greeted him warmly upon entry. Colm settled into his usual spot by the window, soon joined by May bearing a steaming cup of coffee.
"Mornin', Colm," she chirped. "No company today?"
"No," he replied, taking the coffee with a nod.
May cocked a brow, hands on her hips. "Well, you've got somethin' better than aces up your sleeve, don't ya?"
"Do I?" Colm mused.
She grinned knowingly. "You know it. And she'll be back to you soon enough with a new baby for you to dote over."
Colm returned her smile, but his mind drifted to Effie’s smile, her grace. "I'll take my breakfast," he managed, watching May saunter away.
His dream flooded back — strolling with Effie along a field, her smile a beacon. They kissed, and she shed her dress to reveal bare skin and delicate pink stockings. Kneeling amidst flowers, the scent of jasmine enveloped him, intoxicating and vivid as reality itself.
Colm had stirred from his slumber, the scent of jasmine lingering in the air, and her smile etched in his mind like a snapshot. He took a hefty gulp of scalding coffee, nearly scorching the roof of his mouth in the process. Thoughts of Valeriya flooded his thoughts. It had been ages since they'd had good sex. She'd put a stop to their intercourse a month ago, fearing for the baby's safety. Then there was that flirty Jenny Callaghan, a sly minx who'd dallied with him just the week prior.
Returning home that evening, he chanced upon a photograph from the Tammany shindig. He stood behind Valeriya, wrangling a distracted Jesse while she struggled with a crying Matthew. Colm knew she despised how she looked in that picture, but to him, she was radiant. Holding that photo, he felt a sudden yearning for more out of life than easy sex.
But that was a week ago, and the longing Colm felt for Effie had nothing to do with his heart for Valeriya.
"Here’s your breakfast, Colm," May chirped, leaning in to set down his coffee. A cloud of her potent scent and sweat lingered as she plunked the eggs and bacon down before him, her hand on his shoulder a pinch too firm. "Eat up, now."
He arched a brow at her, eyeing the tough-looking bacon. "How ancient's this pig, May?"
May let out a laugh, swatting him playfully before sauntering off. Colm tried the meat, but it sat heavy in his belly after one chew. The eggs weren't any more inviting. He pushed the plate aside and sipped his coffee, gazing out the window at the passersby. He nodded to a couple of gals—Nellie Conlon and her girl—and a man he'd tossed cards with two nights gone, whose name eluded him now. Across the street, Dom Conlon emerged from the grocer's, his hat doffed, damp hair slicked back from a bath. Wagons rattled down the dusty road, drivers slumped over the reins, eyes shaded beneath low-drawn brims. One by one, Colm watched as shops unlocked their doors: dry goods and market stalls, tailors' nooks. Then, he spied a young woman rounding the corner of the Gilded Lily, bound for the grocer. Sunlight glinted off her unbonneted head as she settled on the stoop, drawing her legs up close. Her skirt's hem lifted to reveal pink stockings, her hair a clean brown shining brightly in the morning sun.
Effie.
Colm set down his coffee, his mind drifting back to his dream from the night prior, where he fancied Effie kneeling amidst a bed of flowers, her hair cascading down her back. Blast it all. It had been far too long since he'd enjoyed a tumble. Colm dug into his pocket with a shrug, tossed a couple of coins on the table for his meal, and gulped the last of his coffee. He chided himself for a fool yet still stepped out of McCallie's and onto the bustling street, his gaze fixed upon her.
Effie lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. A smile graced her lips as she gave a hesitant wave. "Mr. Tracey!" she called out. "How delightful to see you."
Dodging a passing caravan, Colm crossed the street towards her. She stood, the blush of her pale pink stockings vanishing beneath the folds of her dress—a more straightforward attire that day, practical in dark peach and a pretty coat, yet clinging to her form.
"Good morning, Miss Russo," Colm greeted, tipping his hat. "What brings you down here today?"
Effie tilted her head as though pondering whether to share a secret. "Well," she began, her voice low and conspiratorial, "it seemed a shame to waste such a fine winter's day indoors."
"Running away, are you?"
She grinned mischievously. "You know," she murmured, leaning closer, "Jenny Callaghan mentioned a nearby hotel with cozy rooms."
"Is that a fact?"
"I... I could show you," she offered coyly.
Colm's heart quickened. "I'd be honored if you would."
Her grin lit up like a lightning bug on a summer night. Colm admired the broadness of her smile and how the pearly whites gave her an air of innocence and charm, all wrapped together.
Colm angled his head toward the tavern. "How about we snag a bottle and some food? We could turn this day into something worth rememberin'."
She seemed taken aback. "Well, I... I believe I'd quite enjoy that."
Colm extended his arm, and with Effie Russo delicately tucked on it, he guided her back across the bustling street to McCallie's tavern. Outside, she waited while he slipped inside to requisition a flask of whiskey and whatever food May could muster.
Emerging with a loaf of bread, a cut of meat, and a jug in hand, Colm spied Effie approaching as though she half-expected him to vanish into the depths of McCallie's. "I thought maybe you'd changed your mind," she stammered, catching her breath.
"Now, why'd I do a thing like that," he retorted, a grin dancing on his lips, "when I've got such a fancy lady waitin' on me?"
Her cheeks flushed—she was easily pleased, that one. It tickled him, and he chuckled, a sound she echoed in blissful ignorance of its cause. Her light and unpretentious laughter wove a spell around him, drawing them closer. Colm gently took her hand and nestled it in the crook of his arm. She leaned in closer. The scent of jasmine from her hair mingled with the warmth of her skin, stirring desires in him that tightened his frame. He fought the urge to linger, focusing instead on paying the cabby and assisting her into the carriage without stealing a touch or kiss in the street.
Unaware of his inner turmoil, she chatted animatedly beside him in the cab, remarking on the coldness of the day and the recent deluge of snow. Wasn't it rare to see such sunshine this time of year?
He gave her his best response, though later, he couldn't rightly recall what he'd said. She sat near him on the seat, so close her arm brushed against his, and he could feel her warmth through his coat.
When they reached the hotel she’d indicated, he helped her down from the carriage. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she grabbed the bag of provisions and headed for the door. Glancing back at him, she waved for him to follow, and Colm found himself trailing after her like some love-struck lad.
Once in an upstairs room, she settled in front of the fireplace, placing the bag beside her. Then, gracefully, she removed her boots and slipped off her stockings. Colm watched, mesmerized by the interplay of firelight and shadow on her ankles. She unpinned her hair, scooted to the fire’s edge, and reclined, bracing herself with her hands. Her hair cascaded down her back, catching the light.
"Oh, kick off those wet boots," she invited. "Warm up. It feels good."
Colm's mind wandered to thoughts of what else might feel good.
"Come on, Mr. Tracey," she urged, flashing a mischievous smile. "Have a seat."
He approached and sat beside her. "Why don't you call me Colm, Effie?"
She grinned. "Very well, Colm. Shed your coat and stay a while. You look like you're ready to run to New Jersey."
Colm removed his coat and laid it on the floor beside him. Warmth blew off the fire, gentle against the thin linen of his shirt. Effie continued to play with the shadows on her feet, the flames tracing ghostly patterns, gleaming off the soft arches of her feet.
Glancing back at him, her look was quizzical and faintly amused.
"Are you ever afraid of fires?" she teased. "I've never been stuck in one before." She gestured toward the roaring flames. "If you charge into them constantly, you aren’t so scared."
"Our tenement went up in flames when I was a kid. Last time, I was afraid of them," he replied.
"Oh?" Her smile faded. She took a deep breath and looked back at him, patting the carpet beside her again. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she widened her eyes, her dark brows arching above them. "Would you like to kiss me, Colm?"
She was a natural flirt. Her question carried the right hint of spirit—not too bold or timid. The tone settled deep in a man's belly, quickening his heartbeat. Without even touching her, Colm knew her kisses would be sweet. It's just like candy, as Dom would say. The kind that made a fellow drunk.
Colm grinned, his eyes shifting to where Effie's foot tapped against the fireplace brick. She'd hiked up her skirt and slip, revealing bare, milky-white calves.
"You may kiss me if you want to," Effie remarked, her voice poised and proper. "If you dare."
Colm's grin widened, his manner teasing. "I reckon, Effie, I'd rather catch you off guard."
Effie blinked, then burst into laughter. "By all means," she agreed. "Make me scream."
Her laughter pleased him as much as her smile did. It was genuine, no pretense about it. Effie wasn't innocent, but there was an honesty to her, a naturalness that made him think she'd be just as genuine when they were alone together. He wondered how long he could draw out the anticipation, savoring the playful banter that led to more intimate moments.
Colm reached for the bag of provisions, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and deftly uncorking it. He took a long swig before handing it to Effie. She met his gaze as she drank, holding the moment before releasing the bottle with a gasp. Her eyes watered slightly, and she dabbed at her mouth with the back of her hand.
"By God, that's... potent," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with surprise.
He moved closer to her, a grin curling on his lips. "Quite a change for ya, ain't it, darlin'?" He snatched the bottle back, taking a swig before offering it her way. "More?"
She giggled softly, reaching for the bottle, but he held it just out of reach. Confusion flickered in her eyes, and recognition dawned when he pressed the bottle to her lips, tipping it too much. Whiskey spilled over her lips, dampening her bodice, but she only laughed as he pulled it away, dabbing at her dress.
"You got me wet," she whined and then laughed in embarrassment as she felt the cold fabric.
"Did I," he asked, fetching his handkerchief to dab at her neck. His thumb brushed her cheek, her skin warm and soft, enchanting him. Before she could react, he tilted her face and leaned in to kiss her.
She caught her breath as his lips met hers, leaning into him as her mouth opened eagerly. The taste of alcohol lingered, mingling with the faint scent of soap beneath her skin. She knew how to kiss, surprising him with her skill. She twined her tongue with his, drawing him deeper.
There was no restraint in her, no hint of disapproval to hold him back. It was just as he'd dreamed. Colm pressed closer, abandoning soft kisses for something more feverish. His fingers traced through her hair and brushed down her back to her waist, where she arched against him. Cupping her breast through her dress, her soft moan sent a shock through him.
Her hands tangled in his hair, teasing his mouth as he grew impatient. He fumbled with the fastenings of her bodice, wishing she wore the low-cut gown from last night. Those buttons were a nuisance, hidden beneath seams. Yet, he unbuttoned one, then another, until her dress slid down her shoulders.
He peeled off her corset, then her chemise.
He stepped back to admire her, and she instinctively crossed her arms. She seemed dazed and somewhat bashful, a sight that made him smile. Taking her hands gently, he lowered them, revealing her breasts—high, ample, flawless. Flames filtered through the fireplace, casting a dappled glow upon her skin, and he couldn't help but close his eyes at her breathtaking beauty. Reaching out, he cupped her breasts, marveling at their softness and fullness. She let out a soft sigh, leaning into him, and their lips met again. His tongue explored her pearl-white teeth as they kissed.
He thought of nothing else: how she felt under his hands and tasted under his tongue. She laid back on the carpet and raised her skirt and white slip. She squealed eagerly into the kiss as he eased her dress further up her hips, over her soft legs. She lifted her hips, bringing him closer as she wrapped her arms around him. She was then utterly naked under him, and she reached for his trousers and underwear so fast that she nearly ripped the buttons off. Colm parted her legs with his hands, and she readily opened them for him and pulled him down atop her hungrily.
Effie was perfect. She sighed as he kissed her neck and held onto him tightly. She ground her hips against his, struggling to breathe, craving closeness as his tongue and lips found her breasts. She was on fire beneath him, and as he finally gave her what she wanted, he heard her little cry. She froze and instinctively tried to push him away. Her knees came up, her fingernails digging into his back.
“Oh God,” she whispered, her cry rough and wounded. “Colm—”
He forced himself to take it slow at first, but then her cries turned into more squeals and moans, and he pressed her to the carpet and thrust his hips until her eyes rolled back. He chased her orgasm with his own, withdrawing just in time with a disappointed whine from Effie. The force of it was so overwhelming it took him a moment to catch his breath. He collapsed atop her, breathing into her neck and in her hair. He turned her face, feeling her wet, salty tears in his mouth.
Colm rolled beside her, looking into her eyes. “You ain’t done this before?”
She grinned a little thoughtfully and shook her head. “Yes, but not like that.”
He parted his lips to ask what she meant, but it didn't seem very smart, as he had assumed she was untouched. In his heart, he knew she was coquettish, but never had he deemed her a whore. But such distinctions mattered little. What weighed heavy on his mind was the unspoken inquiry he dared not utter: Of all the men in New York, why him?
Anxious, he held his tongue. He hid from the prospect of her response. Better, he thought, to deem it mere dalliance, mutually desired, his sole duty ensuring her pleasure. Leaning close, he kissed her, reassured by her sigh and how she nestled nearer. Any trace of remorse faded when her hip pressed against him when her finger traced his chest. At that moment, all faded save the sensation of her beneath him.
Three more times, they shared their passion before daylight waned. As evening hues stretched long and shadows deepened, he withdrew, finally sated. Retrieving his trousers, he gazed out the window. An hour, perhaps more, before his shift at the Liberty Bell 29 commenced—time to return.
Effie stretched out lazily, a smile dancing on her lips. "Come back, Colm," she murmured, her voice carrying that easy charm. "It's still early."
He tossed her the dress, petticoat, and stockings with a flick. "We gotta move," he muttered, tugging on his trousers and striding toward the pitcher and bowl atop the dresser. The water's chill made him shiver, but he splashed it over his face, washing away the drowsiness of their affair, feeling awake once more.
Turning back, he found her clad in disarray - dress loosely draped, hair tousled and falling across her face, attire rumpled and dusty. Colm's fingers brushed his wedding band, a pang of regret stirring. What had he gotten himself into? She was supposed to be like any other rich girl he'd seen, craving excitement in the slums. Nothing special. The urge to bolt gripped him as he edged toward the towel to dry his face.
"Could you assist me?" she inquired softly, a helpless gesture accompanying her words. "The buttons—"
His jacket lay forsaken on the floor. Colm scooped it up, donning it with a careless shrug, and fished a cigarette from his pocket. Gripping it between his teeth, he strode over to Effie, grappling with those blasted tiny buttons until she was securely fastened again. Stepping back, he lit his smoke, taking two puffs before noticing her gazing at him with a tender, besotted look.
Her soft hand reached for his arm, fingers clasping tightly. "Must you go so soon?" she murmured tenderly. "Perhaps we could have dinner together?"
Colm sighed heavily. "Not tonight, Effie," he replied, striving to mask the guilt in his voice. "Got work to tend to."
"Ah, yes. Saving the city," she nodded, smiling faintly.
He gave her hand a rapid pat, and she reluctantly let go as they walked back downstairs and outside. Silence enveloped them, a comfort to Colm as it gave him room to think. Thoughts drifted to whether Al Cohen would be up for a game of cards at the Liberty Bell later. Al always had cash to spare but was good at keeping it. Pulling one over on him required skill.
"Colm?" Startled by her interruption, Colm turned to find Effie Russo walking beside him, her delicate hand resting on his arm. He looked surprised to see her there.
"Hm?" he grunted, unsure how to handle the situation.
"Is... is something the matter?" she asked, concern lacing her words.
He frowned, unsure how to respond to her genteel worries. "What?" he muttered gruffly, avoiding her gaze. Her touch lingered, and he wished she wouldn't fuss over him. It reminded him of their stark differences—the luxury she was accustomed to and the rough world he navigated daily.
A hansom rattled by, and he looked up at the bathhouse across the street—its sign boasting baths for a nickel. Blast it, he could use a wash-up, but work beckoned, and time was scarce. As they neared the hansom, Colm slowed his pace. He made to move away, but Effie's grip tightened, halting him in his tracks. Her eyes pleaded with him, that same infatuation gleaming brightly.
“So, what about breakfast?" she inquired. "I know not tomorrow, but perhaps—"
"Yeah," he nodded. "Sure." His gaze drifted, awaiting her cue to depart. "I'd like that."
Her smile gleamed with delight as she released him. "Shall I drop by, or—"
"I'll find ya," he assured, planting a distracted peck on her cheek. "Catch you later, eh?"
"Of course." She pivoted away yet twirled a few strides towards the hansom to offer a dainty wave.
He reciprocated, then settled the hansom fare and assisted her aboard. He watched her figure sway under the gown as she sat, her curls bouncing. He sighed, drawing deep on his cigarette, savoring the smoke as it rolled out in a slow, even stream while the hansom trundled down the thoroughfare. She'd been a sight that day. It'd been a while since he'd had a tumble like that.
But his thoughts had turned elsewhere before she glanced back at him through the window, and he hadn't even reached halfway to the Liberty Bell 29 before he forced his mind on something else.
May 1873
Brooklyn, NY
“Are you sure?” Colm asked. Valeriya had never heard him sound so sad. “How do you know?”
He took another length of water hose and hauled it back around a hook on the imposing red fire engine.
She rocked back on her heels and nodded to Colm’s boots, unable to look at his eyes. “Yes. The doctor says so.”
“And it’s mine?”
At that, Valeriya met his cold green gaze with a small gasp and a hot sting of tears already threatening to spill. “Yes, of course. Our baby, Colm.”
Colm caught the uncomfortable glance of an older fireman working alongside him, eyebrows raised and a low whistle escaping his lips before he walked away.
“And you’re keeping it?” Colm asked quietly, finally pausing his work.
Valeriya paused. She wasn’t naïve to what he was asking. “Well…maybe, no. Maybe I give the baby to the priest, and he will find a good home.”
With a pause that matched her own, Colm nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best.”
She looked at the ground again and winced. “I write Mama, and she says she is happy, and…” She stole a glance up at him. “And she wants me to marry you.”
Colm almost failed to hide his distaste at the idea of it. “No. I ain’t going to marry you—” he stopped when he caught the look on her angelic face. “Not now…Valeriya, we ain’t getting married right now. You didn’t write to her we’d get married, did you?”
“I…” Her voice shook, and her blue eyes closed desperately to hold back the tears that had already begun to spill.
“God…dammit…”
“I know, but I tell her you asked me to marry you, and I said yes. To make Mama happy. Papa will never forgive me. He calls it a sin.”
Colm’s heart stopped beating. Finishing his work where he stood, he let her stand there in silence, letting the tears fall freely.
She mumbled something in Russian and began to walk away, wiping her eyes on her shawl. She heard him catch up to her in a few long strides and felt him take her arm. Suddenly, she was being pulled and hugged tightly against his chest. Her cries grew louder, letting herself go nearly limp in his arms, feeling one of his calloused hands stroking her head.
“Hey,” his voice was muffled and hoarse. “Just because I don’t want no baby doesn’t mean I don’t want you.” His other hand rubbed her back. “I like you a lot. And if you wanna get married in a few years, then…that’s fine by me.” He pulled her from his chest to look down into her watery blue eyes. “But we can’t have a baby now. We can’t.”
He wiped her tears with his sleeve and kissed her forehead.
“You like me…a lot?” Valeriya asked, her eyes wide and hopeful.
“’ Course,” Colm said. “You’re my best girl, ain’t ya?”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, pursing her swollen lips together. “I like you a lot, too.”
“We’ll tell my folks we’ve got a plan. So long as it’s a catholic orphanage, they won’t mind. And I bet they’ll take you in until you have it—”
Valeriya’s mind went blank as he continued to ramble and rub her back, talking so fast and confidently that she lost track of what he was saying until it was just a slur of word salad—another smooth-talking speech about nothing.
“Here, I’ve got something for you,” Colm said, clearing his throat and releasing her. “I was going to wait, but you could use some cheering up now.”
“Oh, what is it?”
Colm reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a little wrapped box with a note that scrawled ‘To Valeriya’ in shaky cursive. “Open it up and find out.”
“Tracey!” A gruff voice called from somewhere in the engine house. “Chief wants to see you, boy. Get a move on.”
“Comin’!” Colm called back distractedly.
Valeriya clutched her gift and quickly unwrapped it, careful not to wrinkle the tissue paper to save it. She took out a small, beautiful silver Sacred Heart medal. It was an expensive and delicate piece of jewelry. Colm watched her momentarily, looking over his shoulder to see if the fireman who called him was watching them.
“Like it? Pretty, huh? It was my mother’s. She gave it to me to give to the woman I’ll marry.”
Valeriya sniffled and smiled with a nod. “Yes.” She traced the cool silver with her fingers. “I can’t wait to show other flower girls. Especially May.”
“Who?”
“May Fallon, she’s my best friend. She’s got lots of nice things like this from doing…favors.”
“Doing favors, huh? I thought she sold flowers like you.”
Valeriya shrugged. “She does. But sometimes, she does other things, you know?”
Colm eyed her up and down. “I reckon so…”
She turned from him and held the medal chain for him to fasten behind her neck. Colm watched her every move as he helped her.
“If you like, I can buy you a couple more nice things like that,” Colm said.
“For me?” Valeriya asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
“Sure. I don’t want you doing favors to look pretty.”
She swung back to him. “Thank you! That will spin her head.”
“Who?”
“May. She is like, how do you say…she thinks she is clever when other girls have things she doesn’t. I only have one pair of earrings from Mama, but May has many other things. She got necklaces and even a sapphire bracelet from one gentleman. Well, not real, but it looks so lovely.”
“Hell, you should bring May around,” Colm said. “Dom, don’t mind spending money on pretty girls. Especially if they’re generous in return.” He laughed, but Valeriya didn’t understand the suggestion.
“I will. She lives at the boarding house with me.” Valeriya forced a sigh. “And I know she likes Dom. She sees him one day with you, and she asks if…” Valeriya blushed and looked away.
She looked over at her perambulator half-full of her flower wares. She wiped her face on her shawl again and tried not to look so unkempt. Looking up at him again, she searched for kindness in his eyes or sympathy, but there was none. She saw mild fear in his eyes for the first time, a quiet stillness that made her so homesick she thought she’d die of it.
Chapter 29: A Lot of Fancy Words
Summary:
“Please?” Kate begged, pulling on his shirt. “Pretty please, Grim? Please, please, please? For a little while?”
Grim hesitated, glancing around as if expecting someone in the shadows to tell him no, but he folded under Kate’s hopeful smile. “Alright, for a little while,” he agreed reluctantly. “What are we doing?”
Kate shrugged. “Anything we can get away with!”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of violence and topics which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
December 1891
HOUSE OF REFUGE, Randall's Island, NY
Kate sat in the cold classroom she called, ‘the big room.’ The walls stood tall and bare, swallowing the light whole, leaving only a glow from sputtering gas lamps to cast long, eerie shadows. Every scratch on the worn wooden floor, every creak of the ancient benches, seemed to echo in her mind. The air was thick with dust and something else, something sharp, like vinegar.
Rows of older girls from Ward Six sat like statues, their backs straight and their eyes forward, locked in silent obedience. Kate sat mesmerized in her seat with the young girls of Ward Four, the pencil in her hand forgotten, tapping it now, gaping as the rest of the Ward Six girls filed into the big room.
Their uniform was intended to make them look orderly and polished—reminiscent of a decent finishing school, should anyone respectable decide to visit the island for a news article. Dark blue flannel, drop-waisted dresses of French muslin, white high collars, white buttons in two rows on bodices, black bow ties at the necks, white cuffs, pleated skirts. The front bodices and hems of skirts were topstitched in a clean white, and the long hair atop every head was neatly brushed and fastened with white, blue, or black ribbons.
There was something undone and imperfect about the way some of them daringly chose to raise their skirts, leave their hair loose, roll down stockings, or, most shockingly, open the buttons to reveal the corsets and camisoles beneath.
They were beautiful to Kate. But they were frightening, too. A fear that put a pit in her stomach. She could sense it in the other young girls from her ward, shifting in their seats. Some had their eyes wide, others making themselves smaller, glancing at the older girls as if they might suddenly bite.
Mrs. Cropper—a stern matron who would’ve been at the same rank as the warden had she been a man—closed the door behind her and stood at the front of the room while demonstrating how to walk in the halls of the Refuge. Standing tall, she was commanding, with wire spectacles that sat sharply on her nose beneath piercing, watchful eyes, missing nothing. Her pristine top knot, almost too perfect to be real, demonstrated not one hair out of place. Kate had met Mrs. Cropper once when she first arrived on the island one month ago. Her practiced smile was a façade, tight and forced, revealing little warmth and plenty of calculation. Kate watched as she carried herself, like someone with the confidence of one day running the place if given the chance.
Her right hand, Mrs. Angove, was younger but a shadow of Mrs. Cropper in a softer demeanor. Her thicker spectacles magnified her slightly nervous eyes, which darted around as if always seeking approval. Her brown hair, styled but frizzy, contrasted with the Cropper knot. A tentative smile was always more convincing than Mrs. Cropper’s but lacked genuine warmth. Dressed in muted tones, her attire practical and modest, giving Kate the impression that she wanted nothing more but to blend in rather than stand out.
Kate was confident neither woman knew her name nor anything else about her. They might not even remember her face despite having gone through her intake process. False smiles, lots of nodding, loaded questions, and plenty of empty assurances that she’d get a good education—that was all Kate could remember of their introduction.
“If you do one thing wrong, Mrs. Cropper will remember it and hate you for the rest of your time here,” an eleven-year-old girl named Eloise Devereaux told Kate once. “You’ll be dead to her. I heard it from Mila Novikova. She has an older sister—Veronika—who used to have Mrs. Cropper as a dorm matron.”
Kate located little Ludmila Novikova, sitting just a few rows down, having her hair braided by Siobhan O’Connell. “Mila thinks she knows everything just because her older sister’s in here,” Kate retorted. “She’s a mouth, that’s all she is.”
Eloise frowned and shook her head. “She is not. You take that back, Katherine.”
“No.”
Kate was glad neither Mrs. Cropper nor Mrs. Angove worked as dormitory matrons anymore. She liked the two women currently running Ward Six, though she didn’t often talk to them. The older girls seemed to adore them very much.
Mrs. Verran was awkward but carried a gentle kindness, offering Kate a polite, sincere greeting when they passed one another in the hallways. Her plain dark hair was always neatly pinned back, and her simple, modest dress was spotless. She had a daughter off at school in Connecticut and spent her holidays off the island and on her brother-in-law’s farm in Yonkers. Her eyes were soft, but she maintained a certain distance, never prying too deeply into the girls' lives. A demeanor of quiet, understated authority, more maternal than authoritarian, and her smiles, though brief, were honest.
Mrs. Kimbrell was vibrant and lively, a widow who wore bright red lipstick and perfectly styled hair. She chatted freely with Kate about topics other matrons would avoid. Kate found her personable, and she always had a knowing look as if she and Kate were in on a secret. Mr. Whalen called her “Macy’s” after the city's big department store because she dolled herself up. Kate didn’t care for that nickname.
There were four matrons in Kate’s dormitory due to the close monitoring her cohort required compared to the older girls. Kate could rank them from the ones she liked the best to the least, at least initially. But now that she’d spent enough time getting to know all four relatively well, and they her, she found new things she liked and disliked about each.
Mrs. Penrose was an enforcer of rules. Her black hair was tightly wound into a bun, and her heavily accented English and seriousness intimidated Kate. Her dress was always neat and precise, with little adornment. Despite her starkness, there was a sense that she was deeply committed to her role and genuinely believed in the importance of order and precision. Her father had been an Englishman, but her mother was from somewhere in Asia, where she spent most of her childhood. Kate had managed to stay on Mrs. Penrose’s good side, despite the warnings she’d gotten from other girls not completely to trust the matron—that she was a snitch and looked out for girls who broke the rules in hopes of reporting them.
Mrs. Roskelley was a quietly reserved Christian woman, her wavy brown hair often loosely pinned back, giving her a slightly unkempt look. She dressed in conservative, muted colors, with little care for fashion or appearance beyond what was necessary. Calm and bordering on indifference, she was usually lost in thought, her mind elsewhere. Conversations with her were brief and superficial, and she rarely showed excitement, making it difficult for Kate to read. But there were moments when a slow smile or a soft dimple appeared. Kate had seen the older girls make her laugh once, so she knew the woman was capable.
Mrs. Spargo, a divorcee, was a dynamic and calm presence, with an air of confidence and experience that set her apart from the other matrons. She’d traveled much of the world and wasn’t easily shaken by the daily dramas of the girls. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence and a hint of mischief, and she often shared stories from her life with Kate, using them to teach lessons or to entertain. She treated Kate more like a favorite pet. Mrs. Spargo told Kate she’d introduce her to her nephew if she were several years older. With one of her many wild stories, the greying matron could calm most panic spirals. And she loved to gossip with Mrs. Kimbrell.
Then came Mrs. Treen—young, sharp, and no-nonsense, with a blunt manner that made Kate nervous. Her clothing was functional and slightly more modern, but nothing that would draw too much attention. She was unafraid to speak up and handle difficult situations with a firm but fair hand. Kate had seen her break up fights between boys and girls alike. There was a certain toughness to her that Kate admired—it was tempered with a sense of justice and a care for the girls’ well-being. Kate hoped one day to be just like that.
And lastly, there was Mrs. Anderson. A stunning woman with a figure that turned heads wherever she went—Nell had long, blonde hair, perfectly coiffed, and her eyes were a vivid grey blue, framed by dark lashes. She had one kind of smile she reserved for men, playful and suggestive, all charm and flirtation. Her voice could be soft and sweet, her touches lingering long, wink here, a gentle laugh there. But Kate had seen her eyes narrow, her smile becoming sharp, almost a snarl. Her nails became claws before Kate’s very eyes.
Mrs. Cropper paced at the front of the schoolroom, her severe stare sweeping over the girls like a hawk. Kate pulled her legs up in her chair so they crossed, her pencil darting across the pages of her sketchbook, half-listening, half-lost in her world. The topic of the lecture had begun innocuously enough—proper uniform etiquette. But as Mrs. Cropper’s tone grew sharper, it became clear this wasn’t just about neat collars and buttoned boots.
“This,” Mrs. Cropper intoned, her voice cold as winter, “is not simply about appearance. It is about purity. Decency. Modesty. Qualities that too many of you—” she paused, her eyes narrowing on the older girls seated in the front— “have been sorely lacking.”
The room felt smaller and hotter. The girls of Ward Four huddled closer in subtle ways. Kate flipped to a fresh page in her sketchbook and began to draw the headmistress with exaggerated sharp features, her nose hooked, her eyes beady and suspicious. She added a broom in Mrs. Cropper’s hand for dramatic effect.
“She’s turning into a wicked old witch right before our eyes,” Kate whispered, and Eloise Devereaux and Beth Lacey giggled quietly, trying to stifle their amusement as the lecture dragged on.
“For those older girls,” Mrs. Cropper continued her voice on an ominous edge, “this is a reminder. Modesty isn’t just about how you wear your uniform. It’s about how you behave. I’ve seen some of you. You think I don’t notice, but I see everything.”
She stopped abruptly and turned toward one girl, Eilis O’Brien, whose face flushed crimson. The girls beside her stiffened as Mrs. Cropper bore down on her.
“I’ve noticed you, Eilis,” Mrs. Cropper said with icy precision, “flirting with the boys in Ward 12 and laughing with them, making eyes. What do you think that leads to? More disgraceful behavior? I remember what happened the last time you were here.”
The room held its breath. Less than half the room knew Eilis’s story—how she had been found sneaking off with one of the boys late at night, how she had been released weeks later with a hollow look in her eyes, and when she returned a year later for petty theft, the hushed whispers that followed about the “problem” that had been taken care of. It wasn’t just the matrons who kept secrets.
Kate glanced up from her drawing, feeling like she’d missed something. She exchanged confused glances with Eloise, Beth, and Ruby Salvatierra. Her hand was still on the page as she watched the exchange with a new intensity. Mrs. Cropper was on a roll, and Eilis looked close to tears, her fingers digging into the hem of her dress under the table.
Kate nudged Beth to her right and murmured, “What’s next? Will they keep us in cages?”
Beth bit her lip, her eyes widening. “Hush, Katherine, or she’ll hear you.”
“I won’t need to say a word,” Kate whispered back, “because I’m already invisible to her.” She tapped her pencil against the sketch of Mrs. Cropper, now complete with a cauldron.
As the headmistress continued, Kate’s eyes drifted back to Eilis, whose posture had wilted under the weight of the accusation. The girls of Ward Six were constantly scrutinized the hardest, Kate discovered—anything short of perfect decorum was seen as a threat. In the eyes of the stricter matrons, they had already fallen and been marked as too worldly and far gone. “Not pure,” as Mrs. Cropper had so bluntly put it. Kate couldn’t help but feel a swell of anger at how the older girls were treated like they were broken, needing to be mended or hidden away.
“The uniform,” Mrs. Cropper said, holding up a pristine white apron, “is a symbol of your purity. It is a reminder of the standards you must uphold. Loose collars, untucked blouses, or dirty hems”—she cast a withering glare around – “are a sign of moral decay.”
Kate rolled her eyes, sketching a few more crooked teeth into Mrs. Cropper’s head in her notebook. The Ward Four girls shifted uncomfortably, though most looked perplexed, some too young to fully understand what was being said but sensing the underlying tension.
“And as for those of you,” Mrs. Cropper continued, her voice lowering to a more threatening tone, “who have already failed to keep yourselves pure, you’ll find few second chances in this world. Once a girl’s reputation is tarnished, it is nearly impossible to recover.”
Kate’s pencil pressed harder into the paper as she watched Eilis’s eyes flicker. “What a load of rot,” she murmured.
Eloise nudged her sharply. “Katherine!” she hissed, gesturing with a finger to her lips.
“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking,” Kate whispered, leaning closer. “She’s acting like anyone cares about these silly rules outside this place. It’s all just a game.”
Beth and Ruby cast anxious looks but couldn’t help the small smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths.
Mrs. Cropper poured herself a cup of tea and called up Mrs. Anderson, who took her place at the front of the room with all her elegance and measured grace. Her blonde hair gleamed under the gaslights, and her sharp grey eyes seemed to catch every movement in the room. She smiled, one that didn’t reach her eyes, Kate noticed, cagey and knowing.
“Now, girls,” she began, her voice soft yet commanding, “we come to the more serious matter of why we hold such high standards for you. Your reputation, once lost—as Mrs. Cropper correctly told you—cannot be recovered.”
Kate watched with muted curiosity, her fingers absently tracing shapes in her book. She watched Ro Moretti across the room, with her soft dark brown hair and warm eyes, sitting quietly among the Ward Six girls, hands folded in her lap. Kate stared at her longer than she had intended. Ro was always calm and composed, even while the harshness of Mrs. Cropper’s words seemed to bruise some of the others. Kate admired her more than she ever let on, more than she could ever express. The makeshift ring Ro wore, a little circlet of twine around her ring finger, was a secret promise token from Jesse Tracey.
Only a few of the girls in Ward Six knew Ro was pregnant, and Kate was the only one from Ward Four. But she did notice Ro seemed different lately: quieter and more withdrawn. It was like she was carrying some invisible weight on her back.
“Your bodies,” Mrs. Anderson continued, stepping closer to the front row of girls, “are temples of the Holy Spirit. They are sacred gifts and are to be kept pure. Clean. Untouched. Not to be corrupted by lust.” Her voice took on a syrupy tone that made Kate’s skin crawl. “A girl who loses her virtue loses her value in this world, and I know many of you may not fully understand the gravity of this yet.” She let her gaze drift across the younger girls, a deliberate pause that felt too long. “But trust me, once you give yourself away, you have nothing to offer a decent man. And no one wants a girl who’s been…spoiled.”
Kate rolled her eyes again dramatically, having no clue what she was on about, and drew Mrs. Anderson in her book, giving her cat ears and a long, sneaky tail. Hanna Shor peered over her shoulder and stifled a laugh.
“Yes, well,” Mrs. Spargo stepped in, taking a firmer, more pragmatic voice, “we’re not just talking about the boys here, not the boys you’ll meet outside the Refuge. We’re also talking about men. Men always look for a way to take what’s not theirs. They’ll flatter you, promise you the world, make you feel special…” She trailed off, and Mrs. Cropper cleared her throat. “But once they get what they want, you’re just another name to be forgotten. I’ve known a few like that myself,” she added, much to the nervous laughter of some of the Ward Six girls. She glanced at Mrs. Anderson with a wink that the younger matron ignored.
Ro shifted slightly in her seat, her fingers fidgeting with the twine ring, though she tried to stay as still and composed as ever. Kate caught the movement, her heart twisting a little. She wanted to talk to Ro and sit beside her during these awful lectures, but that wasn’t allowed.
Mrs. Treen raised her hand and cut straight to the point. “Let me be clear,” she said, turning in her seat to address the girls behind her, folding her arms across her chest. “This isn’t just about your reputation. It’s about your future, alright? Any girl caught misbehaving with the boys here will face consequences.” She eyed the room, and Kate noticed how some older girls shrunk in their seats while some of the younger ones whispered nervously. “Is that clear? Please don’t put that extra responsibility on me. I already have enough to do in my job here.”
Another round of anxious laughter from the girls.
Mrs. Anderson smirked. “We don’t need more girls ending up like—” Her eyes flicked toward Eilis, the girl Mrs. Cropper had already humiliated before she cut herself off. The implication was clear.
Eloise leaned close to Kate’s ear and whispered, “Eilis used to be Mrs. Cropper’s favorite. A golden girl. But now she’s…well…”
“A cautionary tale?” Beth helped, resting her chin on her palm as she watched Kate sketch. “With a varnished future.”
“Tarnished,” Kate corrected her without looking up.
“Her body isn’t even her own anymore,” Ruby added sadly, looking down at herself in sudden curiosity. “But then…whose is it?”
Kate felt something hot and simmering flare up inside her. She sketched Mrs. Treen with sharpness, and her lips pursed together like she was sucking on lemons.
“Some of you,” Mrs. Cropper added, “already know what happens when you let yourselves be tempted.” Her eyes settled first on Eilis, who had silent tears rolling down her pretty porcelain cheeks by this point and then on Ro.
Kate’s breath caught—did she know? Could she tell about Ro?
“Wards 11 and 12 have seen their fair share of improper behavior,” the headmistress said. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed some of you smiling, flirting, encouraging those boys to behave poorly.”
Ro didn’t flinch, but Kate could see the slight tensing of her shoulders. She wanted to shout, but her mouth stayed shut, her hand gripping her pencil tighter.
The headmistresses’ eyes glided over the sea of girls from both wards, catching expressions of guilt and fear. Kate decided she didn’t know about Ro, not yet. But it was only a matter of time before the matrons found out, and then what? Ro wasn’t just one of the girls. She was exceptional, at least to Kate. And Kate knew Jesse cared. Jesse Tracey was always so confident, constantly breaking the rules. Kate wondered if he understood the weight of what he’d given Ro. The twine ring was sweet, sure, but it wasn’t enough. Not with what Ro was facing.
“You are the keepers of your virtue,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Guard it well.”
The words hung in the air as Mrs. Cropper dismissed them. The matrons filed out, leaving the girls to sit with their thoughts.
Kate snapped her sketchbook shut and shoved it under her arm. She glanced at Ro again, who stood slowly, fingers still twisting the little ring Jesse had given her. Their eyes met briefly, and Kate felt her stomach flutter.
Ro smiled faintly, but there was a sadness and quiet kind of acceptance that made Kate’s heartache. Ro’s secret was safe, but it wouldn’t stay hidden forever. And when it came out, Kate did not doubt that some of the matrons would tear her apart like they did Eilis.
“Let’s get out of here,” Eloise muttered to Beth and Ruby, her voice tight. “Katherine, are you coming? We’re going to play ‘house’ in the garden.”
“I don’t want to play house again,” Kate grimaced. “I always have to be the papa.”
“I’ll let you be the Austrian spy this time. It's what you wanted to be last time,” Eloise offered. “Ruby’s the wealthy aunt from Europe with lots of boyfriends. And Beth is my sister who has a theater in the city.”
“No thanks,” Kate said flatly, hearing the usual shuffle of whispering and murmuring as the girls collected their things and stood. She watched Ro disappear out the door and into the hall with a pale face and one hand pressed to her stomach. Something was wrong—Kate could tell.
Without thinking twice, she motioned to Hanna Shor, the soft-spoken German girl who sat behind her. “Hanna, come on,” Kate whispered, tugging at her friend’s sleeve. “We’ve got some spying of our own to do. Save us as a spot at dinner.”
“Sure,” Beth said with a smile, twirling after Ruby and Eloise. “El, can we pretend I also have magic singing powers, like a siren—"
Hanna looked confused, her brow furrowing beneath her unruly long waves of dirty blonde hair, but she nodded and followed, her face tense. “Where we go?” she asked in her broken English.
“Ro. She doesn’t look too good.”
Taking her hand, Hanna allowed Kate to pull her into the hall and into the girls’ lavatories around the corner, a dimly lit space that smelled faintly of soap, old perfume, and the lingering smoke from cigarettes that some of the older girls had snuck in. Eilis’ friends had already gathered there, comforting her as she leaned against the sink, wiping away tears.
Kate caught bits and pieces of her story as she lingered near the mirrored wall. Eilis, who’d given birth last year and had her baby taken away by the Children’s Aid Society, looked hollowed out, the sadness in her sparkling dark eyes something that couldn’t be wiped away with a handkerchief.
“I miss her every day,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath as one of the Ward Six girls, Nadia Noor, hugged her tightly. “My little girl…I never even held her properly. They just took her.”
“Shh, Eilis. Those women don’t know anything. It wasn’t your fault,” Nadia said, stroking her hair in that protective, mothering way Kate noticed the older girls adopted. “Sven Christensen was a no-good dog, anyway. He left you to deal with it.”
“He was contracted before he knew,” Eilis cried in frustration. “They bound him apprentice to the first ship out of New York. They knew what they were doing.”
"He wouldn't have stayed."
"I liked him," Eilis mumbled.
Another girl, Odette Varenne, nodded solemnly. “He had lovely eyes.”
Eilis wiped her eyes, but it didn’t do much to help. She leaned against the wall with a hurt, defiant look. “It’s not fair. None of it is fair. They can stand up there talking about ‘virtue’ and ‘purity’ all they want, but they don’t know what it’s like to have no choice.”
Kate listened from a few feet away, feeling the weight of their words even though she didn’t fully understand everything. She knew she was too young to have the same worries as these older girls, but she felt some injustice, the pain that dripped from their voices. She watched as they shared a cigarette, passing it between them, fixing their appearances in the mirror with deliberate, rebellious care.
Ro, meanwhile, stood by one of the sinks, clutching her stomach. Her face had gone ashen, and she looked like she was struggling to keep whatever illness she was feeling inside.
“You okay, Ro?” Kate asked, slipping up beside her. “You look…kind of sick.”
Ro blinked and shook her head. “I’m fine, Katerina, just a bit off.” She straightened up and breathed in deeply, trying to keep it together. “Don’t worry. You can’t catch it.”
“Maybe something you ate,” Hanna suggested, rocking on her heels.
Kate watched Ro closely as she looked in the mirror, absentmindedly smoothing her clothes. Her fingers trembled.
“Mrs. Anderson said no man would want us if we weren’t pure.” Kate frowned at her reflection in the mirror. “But I don’t understand. That’s silly. Why do we care what they think about our cleanliness? They don’t even bathe regularly in Wards 11 and 12.”
Nadia snorted a laugh. “You tell ‘em, Katherine.”
Odette blew out a cloud of smoke, winking at Kate. “Never let a man tell you what you’re worth if he doesn’t bathe regularly.”
Eilis cracked a small smile. “Yeah, Katherine. You’re going to grow up smarter than all of us.”
Kate grinned back, the warmth of their approval bubbling in her stomach.
Leaning against the wall with crossed arms, Odette returned the cigarette to Eilis. “They preach purity like it’s some magic shield, but it’s a lie. It doesn’t matter how good you are—they’ll still find a way to tear you down. Even holy virgins like Veronika.”
She gestured to the dainty Veronika Novikova as she chatted obliviously with a frowning Josie-Mae Stanton.
Nadia nodded in agreement. “All those matrons forget what it’s like to be young. They don’t know what it’s like to be stuck here with no future. They act like we have choices, but we don’t.”
As the older girls continued chiming in, Kate drew little sketches in her mind of each one—the way they stood, their expressions, the way the cigarette smoke curled around them like a veil.
Ro suddenly staggered, her hand shooting to her mouth. Kate’s heart leaped in her chest, and she gasped, “Ro!”
Ro bolted to the nearest stall without a word, the door slamming shut behind her. Retching echoed inside the lavatory, making Kate’s stomach churn.
Nadia and Odette exchanged looks.
“She’s got Jesse’s baby, doesn’t she?” Nadia whispered, her voice low but not low enough that Kate couldn’t hear. “Poor girl. Impure like the rest of us, huh?”
Kate’s eyes widened. How did they know?
Hanna tilted her head in surprise. “What happen to Ro?”
“Ro is not impure!” Kate fired back at Nadia with a little stomp.
The two older girls burst into laughter, though Eilis remained stoic. “Relax, Little Italy,” Odette said, flicking ash from the cigarette into the sink. “It’s just a fancy word. Ignorant people use fancy words all the time, matrons included.”
Kate didn’t answer. Ro came out of the stall, pale and trembling, but she wiped her mouth and forced a weak smile. “I’m alright. Don’t mention this to anyone, okay?” Her voice was quiet, pleading.
The older girls nodded in silent agreement, Odette stifling a comment under her breath and Nadia averting her eyes in shock.
“You already know I won’t tell,” Kate said, offering a small, uncertain smile.
Ro smiled back. “You’re a good bambina, Katerina.”
Kate glanced at the cigarette that was now in Eilis’s hand. The way the older girls casually passed it around seemed so grown-up and alluring in a forbidden way. She’d seen older boys smoking, too, sneaking cigarettes behind guards’ backs, and Moses Cassidy had let her smoke once or twice with him on the fire escape.
“Can I have a drag, Eilis?” Kate asked with wide, innocent green eyes, leaning in eagerly. “I know how.”
Before Eilis could even consider answering, Ro swiftly snatched the cigarette away. “Absolutely not,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “You’re too young for that stuff, Katerina. Don’t go getting ideas.”
“But Moses said—”
“Moses is an idiot,” Ro finished, taking a drag herself.
“Moses Cassidy said what?” Josie-Mae asked with an annoyed snarl.
Ro waved her off with a huff. “Don’t get me started.” She looked down at Kate with a sigh. “Don’t you want to play a while before dinner? Or would you rather hang around in here for an hour?”
Kate pouted for a few seconds, but then she exchanged looks with Hanna, who suddenly became interested in a ladybug on the sink. She tugged at her friend’s sleeve, and the duo started off, leaving the older girls behind as they weaved through the main floor halls.
Hanna giggled, her broken English exclamations mixing with her laughter as she took off after Kate as fast as she could. Kate pulled her into the kitchen, where they peeked around the corner, watching the cook, Mrs. McCaghren, shout at her assistants as they prepared dinner. Kate made faces behind the older woman, barely holding back her laugh as Hanna covered her mouth with her hands. Tiptoeing, Kate and Hanna stole a couple of sugar cubes and then took off back the way they came.
“This way!” Kate called, running into the laundry room, laughing as she and Hanna flung themselves onto piles of freshly washed linens, hiding beneath their warmth.
Hanna screamed when she pulled a pair of large underwear out from under her back, and Kate quickly nudged her up. Again, the two took off, running down one of the long, dark corridors, gliding across the recently waxed floor with their boots—nearly colliding with Grim Krause.
The fourteen-year-old’s face lit up in surprise as the two little girls barreled into him. “Whoa!” Grim grunted, steadying himself as Kate and Hanna suddenly stopped. “What are you two hoodlums doing?” He asked with a shy smile, a flush creeping up his cheeks, always a bit overwhelmed around high-energy Kate.
Kate grinned up at him. “We’re doing our exercise before dinner. What else?”
Grim shook his head. “Sure.”
“You want to play with us, Grim?” Kate asked, her eyes shining.
“I can’t. I’ve got to work—”
“Please?” Kate begged, pulling on his shirt. “Pretty please, Grim? Please, please, please? For a little while?”
Grim hesitated, glancing around as if expecting someone in the shadows to tell him no, but he folded under Kate’s hopeful smile. “Alright, for a little while,” he agreed reluctantly. “What are we doing?”
Kate shrugged. “Anything we can get away with!”
Before Grim could protest, Kate grabbed his larger hand, pulling him along with Hanna trailing behind. The trio made their way toward the back of the building, near the disused courtyard where they were least likely to be caught. There, with the winter snow falling around them, Kate suggested a game of hide-and-seek. Grim agreed readily, though he knew he’d likely lose on purpose.
They spent the next hour darting around, hiding behind old crates and trees, laughing and whispering. Grim made his hiding spots evident as a good sport, with his lanky frame sticking out from behind whatever place he chose.
As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the courtyard, Kate flopped down, breathless and laughing, her face flushed with exertion. Hanna collapsed beside her, equally out of breath, and even Grim sat down tiredly, trying to catch his breath.
Kate looked over at Grim, the fading sunlight casting shadows on his face. “You’re terrible at hide-and-seek, Grim,” Kate said, nudging him playfully with her foot.
Grim smiled, his cheeks flushing again, but he said nothing.
Hanna nodded in agreement. “Ja, Grim…bad!” she added with a giggle.
“You’re good at other things, though,” Kate sighed, shaking her head. “It’s not your fault you’re so damn tall.”
“Don’t say ‘damn,’ ketsele.”
“What are you three doing out here?”
The voice was gruff and low. Grim sat up quickly, brushing the leaves off his uniform. Kate and Hanna remained on the ground, staring at Mr. Whalen's towering figure. The guard’s eyes lingered on Grim. “It’s nearly dinner. You two should be in your dormitory, not out gallivanting like heathens. And you’re meant to be finishing your chores, Krause.”
Hanna shrunk back, her eyes widening. Kate got to her feet and straightened beside Grim. “We were just playing,” she answered his rhetorical question quickly. “There’s no rule against hide-and-seek.”
Whalen’s scowl darkened, and he stepped forward, prompting Grim to push Kate slightly behind him. “Mind your tongue, girl,” he barked, grabbing Kate’s shoulder and roughly pulling her back out from behind Grim. “You don’t smart off to me like that.”
“She didn’t mean anything by it, sir,” Grim said quietly. “Don’t yell at her.”
“Are you giving me lip, too, boy?” he growled, his large hand reaching out before Grim could react.
The slap was quick, the crack of Whalen’s hand against Grim’s face reverberating through the courtyard. Grim staggered back, clutching his cheek, but kept his mouth shut. He regained his balance, his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whalen.”
“You shouldn’t be cavorting with these girls anyway,” Whalen spat, his lip curling in disgust. “You’ve got work to do, boy, and now you’ll be staying through dinner to get it done.”
Kate’s tiny fists clenched, and she opened her mouth to say something, but Grim shot her a stern look, his eyes pleading silently for her not to make it worse.
“Come, Katherine,” Hanna whispered. She tugged at Kate’s arm, desperate to go back inside.
Kate hesitated but eventually let Hanna pull her away. They turned and ran, their small boots pounding against the heavy stone as they darted away from Whalen, leaving Grim behind. As they fled through the halls, Hanna was trembling, her face pale with worry. They slowed their pace, breathless from all the sprinting, finding themselves at the bottom of the long staircase up to Ward Four. The familiar scent of simmering stew and baked bread began to waft through the air—indicating dinner time was near.
“That man…he’s scary,” she whispered shakily. “He hurt Grim…like nothing.”
Kate’s anger hadn’t faded. “He won’t get away with it,” she muttered, her jaw twitching. “Grim didn’t do anything wrong. And neither did we, dammit.”
Hanna looked at Kate curiously as they walked into Ward Four. “What can we do?”
“Anything we can get away with,” she said, her eyes burning.
“There you two are.” Mrs. Treen tapped her foot impatiently, leaning against the doorway to the younger girls’ dormitory. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”
“Really?” Kate asked.
The matron’s sharp eyes caught every detail of their disheveled appearances. “No. But running off again, I see,” she said, folding her arms. “I don’t suppose you’ve forgotten what time it is.”
Hanna shifted back and forth, but Kate raised her little chin. “We were just trying to get away from that brute, Mr. Whalen!” she declared as though that might somehow excuse their absence.
Mrs. Treen’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, well, I don’t blame you. But you girls know the rules,” she said, her tone clipped. “No wandering off without permission, especially not near the boys’ ward.” Her gaze softened as it moved to Hanna, who was still wringing her hands nervously. “Come now. Dinner’s waiting and the others have already said their prayers and lined up.”
“But I have to—” Kate was cut off as Mrs. Spargo appeared behind them.
The older matron smiled. “Ah, Katherine, Hanna,” she greeted them, brushing both Kate’s curls and Hanna’s blonde tresses with her fingers. “Did you blow off enough steam out there?” She gestured down the hall. “Let’s go, dears. It wouldn’t do for you to miss a meal, would it?”
Kate grumbled but followed along. As they walked toward the canteen, Mrs. Spargo leaned closer to Kate, her voice raspy and low. “I saw what happened with Mr. Whalen. Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure he gets what’s coming to him.”
Kate’s frown twitched into the tiniest hint of a smile. When they reached the canteen, the other Ward Four girls were shuffling in, lining up for their evening meal. Kate craned her neck at Wards 11 and 12 but didn’t see Grim anywhere. Mrs. Treen nodded, ensuring her charges were where they needed to be.
“Into line now, girls,” she said crisply, directing Kate and Hanna.
Kate spotted Ro slipping into line, her pretty face still pale from the earlier spell of sickness. But before Kate could join her, she caught a glimpse of Jesse across the room. He was standing with the boys from Ward 12, including Moses Cassidy and Raffi Boudreaux, his face and clothes grimy from the day’s work but standing steady as ever. When their eyes met, Kate gave a small, reassuring wave.
Jesse responded with a mock, surprised face and pretended to hold a telescope to his eye to see her. Kate chuckled and did the same, closing one eye and squinting through her circled hands. Jesse tapped Moses on the shoulder, whispering something and pointing at Kate. Raffi laughed at the joke and faintly smiled, glancing between Jesse and Kate.
Kate turned back to Hanna, who nervously adjusted the collar of her dress, trying to smooth out imaginary wrinkles. “We’re not in trouble, Hanna,” she whispered, nudging her friend. “Just get in line.”
Hanna gave Kate a timid nod and shuffled forward to take her place in the line with the other girls. Just ahead of them, Ro stood silently. The twine ring was hidden beneath her fingers, but Kate knew it was still there. Kate wanted to ask Ro how she was feeling, and she wanted so badly to make her smile.
“Hey, slugger,” Mrs. Treen placed a hand on Kate’s shoulder, redirecting her safely out of the path of a stack of breakable plates in front of the little girl. Kate snapped her eyes away from Ro and stared at the collision waiting to happen before her. “Pay attention.”
“You’re hurting my shoulder,” Kate grumbled, shaking the matron’s hand off.
“You’re hurting my blood pressure,” Mrs. Treen shot back, patting Kate’s affected shoulder and moving on down the line to another girl.
Kate rolled her eyes, lining up alongside Hanna and the rest of Ward Four. The canteen bustled with the sound of clattering dishes and lulled conversations as the matrons began to serve the evening meal. Mrs. Spargo floated through the canteen like a breeze, smiling at the girls she passed by, making small talk. At the same time, Mrs. Treen stood near the entrance like a sentry, her eyes tracking any potential trouble and dryly laughing at Moses Cassidy almost tripping over Veronika Novikova’s outstretched foot.
Kate stole one last look over at the boys. Jesse was still watching her, that playful glint in his green eyes. She gave him a quick thumbs-up before focusing on the bland food.
“Don’t think about Whalen,” Kate whispered to Hanna, sitting beside Ruby and Beth at the table while Hanna slid in next to Eloise. “I said we’ll get him back, and so we will. That is my word.”
Hanna looked at her uncertainly, a mix of fear and admiration in her eyes. “You’re not scared?”
“Scared of what?” Kate cocked her head.
“Mr. Whalen,” Hanna said as if it were obvious. She looked down at the mush on her plate. “I don’t know which I’m more afraid of. Impurity or him.”
“Both,” Eloise answered, having not entirely followed the conversation.
Kate laughed, shaking her head. “Well, I’m not scared of either one.”
Hanna bit her lip, still unconvinced, her eyes flickering toward the doorway.
“They tell us one thing, fine,” Kate whispered, glancing toward a group of matrons at the opposite end of the canteen gathered around the serving table. “But look at Ro. Look at Eilis. They’re still here, and people like them. They didn’t turn into some wicked thing just because they made mistakes.”
Hanna nodded slowly.
Eloise gave Kate a confused look. “What?”
“Dammit, girls,” Kate pointed to the coven of matrons, jolting Ruby as she poured more water in her dirty tin cup. “They want us to be scared. Scared to do anything. That’s how come nothing changes.” She glanced at the older girls sitting farther down at an adjacent table. “They’re not broken. They’re not ruined as far as I see.”
Beth twirled her spoon in her stew, her brow furrowed. “But what if they are, and it does matter? You know, once they leave this place?”
Kate groaned, looking over to Ro again. She was laughing at something Josie-Mae had whispered to her. It gave Kate a fluttery feeling to see Ro happy again. “It doesn’t matter.”
Hanna smiled, though it was small and unsure. “I wish to be brave like you someday.”
Kate shrugged. “Stick with me, Hanna. You’ll learn real fast.”
Eloise tore at the stale bread unsuccessfully, trying to get it to rip in two. “I don’t know…Mr. Whalen’s a temporary corundum—”
“Conundrum,” Kate helped.
“…Impurity sounds worse to me,” Eloise went on. “It’s like a curse, right?”
“No, El.” Kate grabbed the bread from Eloise and tore it apart in one try. “It’s just a fancy word. Ignorant people use fancy words all the time.”
Chapter 30: The Banshee
Summary:
For a long moment, Kate’s lips twisted into a humorless, brittle smile—a smile that, though it sought to convey acquiescence, betrayed a deep-seated uncertainty. “It sounds all very nice in theory, but… I don’t feel as if I belong anywhere, Ro. I hardly know where in all this misery I fit in,” she murmured, her words heavy with self-doubt and quiet despair.
Ro regarded her friend with a pensive air, letting the chill weight of Kate’s words hang in the air. “Perhaps it isn’t a matter of fitting in where you think you ought to,” Ro offered slowly, her voice measured and laden with the wisdom of hard-won experience, “but rather it’s about forging your own path. You need not be perfect for anyone’s sake. Just be yourself, however imperfect you may feel.”
Notes:
Please note: The content within this chapter includes depictions of substance abuse, addiction, and its consequences, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Chapter Text
St. Patrick’s Day, 1902
New York City
Kate was certain that the evening’s misfortunes had begun with a single, irrevocable error—the abrupt cancellation of her date with Spot at the very last moment. In the gray light of early dusk, she had offered him a perfunctory apology, withholding any explanation for her sudden change of heart. Though Spot had not been entirely eager to join the bacchanalian revels that night—a reluctance hinted at by his quiet acquiescence when Cards first mentioned her inclusion in the plans—he had nonetheless harbored a modest hope that her presence might ameliorate his own disquiet. Yet that morning, a pall of uncertainty had descended upon her, and with trembling resolve, she had declared that she could no longer accompany him.
This resolute renunciation, however, proved to be as ephemeral as it was impulsive. It was not long before Leah and Colleen, with a sincerity that bordered on supplication, had descended upon her in a flurry of earnest entreaties. Their knees, practically pressed against the floor, bore witness to a desperation borne of friendship and an intimate understanding of her inner turmoil. In that moment—steeped in both guilt and an unbidden longing—Kate’s resolve wavered, and she found herself rethinking her decision. She harbored the quiet hope that Spot’s steady, unassuming nature might yet shield her from the impending maelstrom of her own emotions.
“Red makes me look like a ladybug,” she murmured softly, her gaze fixed upon her reflection in an antiquated mirror. The burgundy frock she had chosen clung to her form in a manner more reminiscent of a finely aged glass of wine than that of a debutante newly thrust upon society. Her voice, tinged with self-mockery and a wistful melancholy, filled the quiet of her room.
At the foot of her bed, where shadows played upon the well-worn floorboards, newly eighteen-year-old Sophie was occupied with the practical task of lacing one of Kate’s old boots. “Ladybugs are lovely,” the girl observed with a simplicity that betrayed neither the cynicism of youth nor the burden of worldly experience.
“In Italy they can be ill-omened,” Leah said.
“No,” giggled Sophie, her voice light. “Ladybugs are good luck.”
Kate, meanwhile, stood before the mirror, her thoughts adrift. How she wished, in that moment of desperate need, to be transfigured from a mere ladybug into a resplendent goblet of wine—a transformation that would somehow render her immune to the chaos of the impending night. Yet, the reflection that greeted her was one of quiet despair: her eyes, a curious amalgam of gold and green, were her sole source of modest pride, admired by strangers and intimates alike. And yet, she knew, they belied the myriad insecurities that lay beneath.
In a silent, methodical inventory of her person, she noted her discontent.
Eyes—uncommonly bright, and often complimented as her finest feature, yet they did little to distract from her inward desolation.
Hair—a hopeless tangle of unmet expectations. Why, indeed, had fate not endowed her with the thick, sunlit locks of Colleen or Sophie, or perhaps the raven tresses of Bella, or even the auburn brilliance of Leah?
Features—her nose, mouth, and chin, all satisfactory though bereft of extraordinary allure. Even her smile, habitually reserved and modest, could not mask the self-doubt that had taken root.
Figure—an elusive ideal still out of reach. She was the sole seventeen-year-old in her acquaintance who could still constrict herself within the confines of a corset worn in her pre-adolescence—a slender, almost ethereal frame that evoked the image of a baby gazelle, as teased by one Lash Kina, his words meant in jest though they stung like truth.
In these quiet moments, as she scrutinized her own reflection, Kate could not help but wonder if Spot perceived her with the same unvarnished honesty with which she regarded herself. For he was, in his own modest manner, the one soul whose candor she trusted implicitly. Perhaps, if she summoned the courage to inquire, his reply might be as simple as, “Look, you’re intelligent—does that not suffice?” Yet, even such a notion filled her with a subtle irritation, for she recognized that his manner had lately grown enigmatic, as if he too were concealing depths of thought he dared not reveal.
Kate found herself increasingly vexed by the imagined echoes of Spot’s unspoken words, as though he had, in his characteristic fashion, uttered them for her sole benefit. In the cool half-light of her solitary chamber, she recognized the absurdity of her irritation—an irritation born not of any tangible slight but of the peculiar transformation that had overtaken him of late. It was as if the man she had once known, so steady and unassuming, had become a stranger whose mannerisms now betrayed a strange metamorphosis.
It was not, she reasoned with a weary sort of amusement, that she expected the overt displays of romance—hearts and bouquets were not in his nature. No, Spot was never one to adorn his affections with such trivial symbols. In the quiet recesses of her mind, she could still summon the image of him: that wry, impish smile playing about his lips, those elongated blue eyes that, in one moment, shone with solemn reflection and, in the next, sparkled with mischievous delight. He was not the archetype of classical beauty, and yet the totality of his presence, with its subtle blend of tenderness and enigma, rendered him entirely irresistible to her.
Perhaps, she mused, the reason she cherished him was as simple as it was inexplicable: she liked him. There was a peculiar comfort in his companionship, a natural ease in his presence that allowed her to cast aside all pretension and be as she truly was. In his company, there was no need for artifice. His regard for her was unadorned, accepting even the most curious measures of her intellect—which, in her private estimations, far exceeded the sum of her physical proportions. Together, they fit together with a simplicity that defied elaborate explanation—a mere, ineffable pleasure that required no dissection.
Yet now, in the shadow of the present evening’s commotion, Kate’s certainties began to crumble. Even her most trusted intimates—Julia, Camille, and Elena—had observed subtle shifts in his comportment. Once an ardent devotee of literature, Spot had forsaken his beloved books in favor of laboring over weights in the local men’s athletic club. He claimed, with a shrug of worldly resignation, that the intellect had the leisure of a lifetime, whereas the flesh was condemned to a brief season of vigor. Such trifling matters, however, were but the surface ripples of a deeper disquiet. It was the tenor of his recent words—when, in a moment of somber confession, he remarked that the very act of falling in love was rendered meaningless without a yardstick for comparison—that troubled her most profoundly. What did he mean by such a statement? Could it be that, in his heart, the pursuit of love had become a game of transient experiments, a necessity to measure and compare affections until the true, unvarnished emotion revealed itself?
Spot had, indeed, already reneged on two commitments in the preceding month. Two broken appointments—each one, in her recollection, a betrayal of the tender assurances she had once clung to. One such transgression, a Saturday picnic, had been sacrificed at the altar of physical exertion. He had chosen, rather curiously, to spend that day in the Turnverein gymnasium alongside Cian Tracey, engaging in a vigorous display of muscle and might. The shock of that act had stirred a tempest within her, and in a fit of indignation, she had hurled a boot at a cherished portrait of him—a silent, desperate protest against the dilution of his affection.
And yet, amid all this uncertainty and disappointment, there remained one moment when her heart was unequivocally certain—a moment when the world seemed to shrink to the intimate press of a kiss. For in those fleeting instants when Spot’s lips met hers, all the discord and doubt vanished, replaced by a soft, fluttering sensation, as though a host of delicate butterflies had taken wing within her breast. That kiss, long awaited and hard-earned through many a barren interval of longing, was the sole testament to the veracity of his love, the only time when the chaotic uncertainties of his recent behavior could be wholly forgotten.
Kate swiftly braced herself against the insidious tide of sentiment that threatened to overwhelm her. She resolved that this evening—no matter how gently Spot’s memory stirred within her heart—she would not become lost in the sentimental reverie that so often beset her. When Spot, in his inimitably laconic manner, had intimated that he might join her later at the St. Patrick’s Day celebration, he had also confessed a need to speak with her on a matter of weight. The tone of his speech—measured, yet tinged with a disquiet that she could scarce explain—warned her of impending discourse that promised no comfort. Even the mere contemplation of his intended words sent a chill along her stomach, as if some frigid hand had gripped her innards.
Thus, spurred by that vague but unyielding apprehension, Kate deemed it necessary to adorn herself with all the grace she could summon, regardless of the humble nature of the venue—a dismal public house where the lamp-light was as dim as the hopes of its patrons. As the wise Leonora Kina had often counseled, misfortunes, like errant winds, were easier to endure when one was arrayed in beauty and confidence.
In the quiet solitude of her modest garret, Kate surveyed her reflection in the timeworn mirror, its surface mottled with the patina of countless evenings. “Great,” she murmured bitterly to herself, regarding the pallid countenance that returned her gaze. “If only some benevolent fairy godmother might appear and endow me with a radiance that banishes this drabness.” With that sardonic thought still heavy on her tongue, she turned to the collection of gowns laid out before her. At length, her hand fell upon a dress of a delicate white, its puffed sleeves promising an innocence that, alas, did little to illuminate her features. The garment, rather than enhancing her complexion, washed her out as though she were carved from lifeless alabaster.
“Please, you’re not seriously contemplating wearing that,” came a crisp, familiar voice from behind. Kate spun around to find Colleen, stationed in the doorway with a smirk that bespoke both mischief and a certain envy. Colleen, who was wont to vex her with ceaseless commentary—especially on matters concerning Spot, the very subject of both their daydreams—was as irksome as a swarm of summer mosquitoes. Colleen, whose dreams were ever consumed with the vision of possessing a gentleman’s affection, could not help but harbor jealousy at the thought that the same Thomas Conlon had been her companion since childhood.
“What do you hate about that dress?” demanded Kate, her tone a blend of exasperation and a spark of humor.
“Nothing,” replied Colleen, her voice smooth and measured, “except that it renders you akin to a ghost.”
“Look who’s speaking!” retorted Kate, her features softening momentarily into a wry grin.
In recent weeks, Colleen had taken to applying her makeup in the manner of the renowned Maude Fealy—light dustings of powder to the face, eyes darkened by carefully applied shadows, and lips tinted with a shade too deep for one of her years. Such fashion, though popular among the stage actresses of the day, lent her an appearance almost comically youthful, as though a child had commandeered the tools of adornment. Clad in a blue dress that matched the glint of her earrings, Colleen resembled one of those delicate porcelain dolls prized by the genteel Julia, evoking both admiration and an unbidden amusement in Kate.
Colleen’s mirth bubbled forth in a tinkling laugh. “I’m sorry, Katherine,” she said, her tone both teasing and contrite, “I didn’t mean to imply you were some ghost. Only that this dress looks rather antiquated—almost like it had been plucked from the days of the Civil War.” Leah tossed Colleen a meaningful look. “Might you wear something a trifle less, how shall I say, buoyant?”
Kate, whose heart was heavy with a melancholy that no teasing could dispel, could not bear to betray her inner despondency. “We’re going to a local pub this evening, not some splendid dance hall,” she replied, her voice low yet edged with quiet irony. “In such gloom, who would notice the finery of one’s attire anyway?”
At these words, Colleen’s expression shifted, and she responded with a sudden change of subject, as if to divert the focus from her friend’s mood. “I wonder,” she began in a conspiratorial whisper, “is it true, as the gossip among the Hudson Dusters goes, that Bella once surreptitiously entered one of those notorious revels at twelve? They say she was discovered at once, though, after much shouting, she was permitted to remain. And thereafter, she said, all the ladies resorted to kissing the gangsters, including Bella—and so fervently that the windows themselves became so obscured with steam one could scarce breathe!”
Kate’s eyes narrowed in reproach, and she cast a warning glance at her friend. “I pray that your father, in his infinite wisdom, has not allowed any such precocious youth to attend this very party. Tonight will be vexing enough.”
“Vexing?” Colleen echoed, crossing the room with a spirited lightness. With a careless kick, she flung aside her slippers and settled herself upon Kate and Spot’s modest bed, rumpling the faded grey quilt in the process. Her eyes, large and round with unbridled curiosity, sparkled. “Why do you think the night will be so stressful?”
Kate’s glance fell to the floor, where Leah and Sophie remained ensconced amidst an assorted collection of shoes—a motley array that testified to the scant resources at hand. “Nothing that concerns you,” she replied with a genial toss of her head, striving to keep the conversation light despite the dark tide in her heart.
“Oh, but that is invariably the most agreeable sort of trouble,” Colleen chided lightly. “How is it that you never tell us anything?”
At that moment, in a fit of exasperation mingled with playfulness, Kate flung the very dress she had been holding so that it cascaded down upon Colleen’s head like a silken parachute. Colleen, not one to be easily defeated, plucked the garment from where it lay and hurled it back at Kate in a lively retort.
“It’s not fair,” Colleen persisted, her tone rising in protest. “My father deems me too young for any pleasures, and I’m forbidden to consort with gentlemen, not that any have inquired after my company for this party.” She paused, then added hastily, “But still…”
A soft murmur from Leah, imbued with a wry wisdom beyond her years, interjected, “Your father is blind to the irony of it all.”
Kate merely shrugged, her voice tinged with resigned humor. “Well, going out with gentlemen can be a delight, but it’s often accompanied by a headache.”
Colleen’s brow furrowed in incredulity. “What’s troubling you, Katherine? I had presumed you were quite fond of Spot.”
“I am,” Kate admitted, her voice lowering into a tentative confession as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile air between them. “But I find myself increasingly uncertain whether his affections are as steadfast as I once believed.”
Colleen stared at her with wide, astonished eyes. “Are you, really? If Spot were not enamored of you, why then does he so incessantly seek your presence—as if he were irretrievably tethered to you by an unyielding cord? I see him, each time we cross paths, ever so closely entwined at your side.”
Kate’s mind turned wistfully to the long, intimate conversations that had been the very substance of her comfort—discussions so deeply woven into the fabric of her soul that the mere cessation of Spot’s words would leave a vast, echoing silence. In that moment of reflective melancholy, she turned away from the unyielding scrutiny of her mirror and resumed her perambulation toward the unruly heap of dresses carelessly arrayed on the small table, nearly stumbling over a stray pair of shoes left askew by Sophie. A deep frown marred her delicate features as she pondered the perpetual lack of privacy in this ramshackle lodging house—a place where every corridor and chamber, even the cherished attic room, seemed more akin to a three-ring circus than to a sanctuary of repose.
Yet it was not that Kate abhorred this motley dwelling or its eclectic inhabitants. On the contrary, she harbored a quiet affection for the lively chaos that animated its halls. Still, nothing equaled the singular solace of the attic room, a modest retreat that she had lovingly painted and decorated herself. No other chamber in the house could boast such intimate familiarity—a narrow, shoebox-like space divided between a humble bed and a cramped desk, the latter crowned by books piled in disordered abandon and a solitary lamp clamped to the bottom shelf. The walls, once an idealized “Mystic Dawn” in pale, hopeful grey—a hue chosen more for its fanciful name than for any innate brilliance—now seemed to brood in the fading twilight, almost as if they had been rechristened “Gnawing Grey,” a name too melodramatic to truly capture the quiet desolation she felt. Here, under the vast expanse of the skylight above and the modest portal to the fire escape on the southern wall, Kate had once found a profound intimacy with Spot. In the nocturnal hush, when they lay side by side on that narrow bed—not in a clamor of passion, but in a silent communion of shared dreams—they would gaze upward at the constellations, drawing closer in spirit than in the fleeting, interrupted acts of physical love, so often disturbed by young Henry’s insistent knocking.
As she crossed back to the full-length mirror that hung resolutely beside her dresser, Colleen, ever the persistent confidante, rose and drifted to her side, leaning with familiar casualness against the ornate surface. “And what about the time you were so upset after Dinah was taken from us?” Colleen inquired, alluding to Mary O’Connell’s beloved tabby, tragically struck down by a carriage. “I heard Spot showed up with Pixie,” she added, referring to the calico kitten that Spot had tenderly bestowed upon Mary on New Year’s Eve.
It was, indeed, true—Spot’s thoughtful nature had once shone forth so brilliantly that even in the grim midst of a dismal night, his gestures warmed the heart. Kate paused, a faint smile tugging at her lips as memories stirred of that day when he had rescued her from the grasp of an overzealous constable during a fervent rally—a moment that had reconfigured her perception of him into something both heroic and deeply humane.
At that very instant, as though drawn by the cadence of their reminiscences, Pixie herself bounded into the room. Still but a kitten, the creature endeavored to mimic the stature of a mature cat, its antics—darting among dust balls and crumpled remnants of discarded socks—imbued with a humorous earnestness. Just as the small feline prepared to leap upon one of Kate’s neglected boots, Kate scooped her up with tender care. The soft, chocolate-and-cream fur pressed warmly against her shoulder, and the kitten’s purring resonated like the distant chug of an old locomotive, a sound that seemed to momentarily suspend the world in gentle repose.
“Poor baby,” Kate murmured with a touch of ironic pity, though in truth, it was not Pixie who evoked her sorrow. Perhaps, in the depths of her soul, it was Kate herself who was the true object of lamentation—a solitary spirit adrift, fearful that, in time, Spot might decide to break away, leaving her to navigate the labyrinth of life in bitter isolation. Such a thought, dire and melancholy, cast a long shadow over her heart, as the gentle murmur of the kitten’s purr mingled with the echo of her own anxious thoughts.
Grim, with his steady mien and taciturn reserve, assumed the role of escort in lieu of Spot—who had, in his own measured way, already committed himself to the care of little Henry for the evening. In that peculiar arrangement of shifting responsibilities, where affection and duty mingled in a subtle dance, Kate found herself left with a singular resolve. As the murky shadows lengthened in the dimming light, she whispered a terse proclamation—a mere five words that, in their brevity, denied the disorder of her inner desire: “I’m going to have fun.” And with that modest declaration, she strode purposefully toward the threshold, leaving behind the confining chaos of her lodging house.
In the stillness that followed, the room seemed to exhale—a last, lingering sigh from a place rife with memories both tender and bitter. The air, heavy with the mingled scents of old wood, stale tobacco, and the faint, lingering toilet water of bygone afternoons, bore witness to Kate’s silent departure. Outside, the day was dissolving into a tapestry of deepening dusk, the sky a vast expanse of brooding indigo punctuated by the glimmer of distant lamps, as if the heavens themselves conspired to cloak the city in a pall of reflective melancholy.
Kate’s footfalls, measured and resolute, echoed faintly in the narrow corridor as she passed beneath an ancient, peeling poster proclaiming the virtues of an era long past—a subtle reminder of the transient nature of youth and beauty. Each step away from the cluttered intimacy of her room felt like a small rebellion against the forces of disarray and the relentless march of time. She was both an exile and a pioneer, stepping forth into a world that promised both the possibility of renewal and the specter of disillusionment.
As she reached the heavy oak door at the front of the lodging house, Kate paused to gather her thoughts. The door, scarred with the marks of countless departures and arrivals, seemed almost to beckon her onward, an unspoken promise of transformation lying just beyond its weathered surface. She pressed her hand against the cool wood and, for a brief, trembling instant, allowed herself to feel the full gravity of the night’s potential. The myriad voices of the past—those gentle admonitions and bittersweet recollections of lost conversations—whispered to her from the dim recesses of memory, urging her to carry forward the fragile hope that had once defined her heart.
In that suspended moment, Kate recalled the long, unhurried dialogues with Spot, conversations that once flowed as naturally as a river in spring. She knew, with a pang of foreboding, that if his words ever fell silent, those moments of mutual understanding would be forever lost, like echoes fading in the vast emptiness of an indifferent void. Yet, even as that thought brought a tremor to her soul, she steeled herself against the encroaching melancholy with a determination that bordered on defiance. For tonight, she resolved, she would reclaim the simple, unadorned pleasure of existence—even if it were to be savored alone, amidst the boisterous throng of a pub that brooded on the outskirts of society.
Thus, with a final glance over her shoulder, as if bidding farewell to the lodging house boys, who stared after her open-mouthed, Kate stepped out into the cool embrace of the evening. The sidewalk beyond was dimly lit by gas lamps that threw quivering shadows upon the timeworn walls, each flicker a small beacon in the encroaching gloom. Outside, the city’s pulse was already quickening—a distant, rhythmic clamor of carriages, murmuring crowds, and the ever-present hum of a metropolis in constant, relentless motion.
The moment a glass of potent, whiskey-flavored libation caressed her lips, Kate found herself compelled to articulate her discontent with the political state of affairs, her tongue sharp as a rapier and her emerald eyes ablaze with a provocative fire that seemed to beckon both admiration and scandal from a motley throng of firemen, street brawlers, party ruffians, and those rugged entrepreneurs who frequented such nocturnal haunts. In that heady instant, she confessed, with a disarmingly frank “terribly,” her present state of being—a declaration that drew a sidelong, knowing glance from Leah, who, accustomed to the unvarnished candor of youth, could scarce hide a measure of reproach. So enraptured was Kate by the swirl of drink and thought that she had entirely forgotten the constricting embrace of the corset she wore, only recalling its presence when a gilded mirror, hanging like an ancient relic, revealed that she had also omitted to don the customary shift beneath—an oversight most unbecoming, particularly in a season not yet warmed by summer’s gentle glow.
It was then, amidst this perfumed haze and the raucous murmurs of a gathering whose fervor rivaled the relentless march of time, that Spot at last emerged from the throng—his arrival both sudden and tentative, as though he had been summoned by an inner imperious call. Kate, whose heart was no stranger to the rhythms of passion and the mingling of desire and dread, found herself drawn to him. With a discreet, yet possessive, placement of her hand upon his thigh as he placed orders at the bar, she sought to bridge the unspoken gulf between them. Yet even as his courteous smile played about his lips, a subtle and inscrutable melancholy lingered in his eyes—an emotion that contradicted his customary reserve and hinted at a tempest of unsaid words. Spot’s manner was most peculiar this night: emboldened by a surfeit of liquid courage, he harbored a secret yearning—a burning desire to confess his love for her, an affection hitherto unspoken and trembling on the threshold of revelation.
But fate, in its capricious cruelty, had intertwined his tender confession with darker tidings. Spot’s gaze, though softened by affection, betrayed a furtive anxiety. He had espied Nell Anderson amid the murk of the gathering—a spectral presence whose cold, calculating eyes now roved the room. Nell, it was whispered, had long nurtured a venomous hatred toward Kate, having nearly orchestrated her demise in years past. Nell was aware, with the precision of a trained adversary, that Kate had taken it upon herself to incite unrest among the laborers of a certain factory—one owned and managed by an intimate Randall’s Island associate of Nell’s, Samuel Burke—and thus, with her malignant designs, sought to undermine Kate entirely.
Spot’s heart, heavy with the dual burdens of unspoken love and protective fervor, now writhed in conflicted agony. He wished nothing more than to proclaim his love to Kate, to shield her from the looming threat of Nell’s malice, yet his tongue remained paralyzed by uncertainty and fear. His behavior, thus rendered strangely distant and erratic, did not escape Kate’s keen perception. She regarded his withdrawn countenance and the hesitant flicker in his eyes as if they were omens—signs, perhaps, that he was preparing to depart from her side.
“Is it that you no longer desire my company?” she ventured in a tone both teasing and plaintive, though inwardly her heart trembled with a dread as profound as any lament. In her mind, she recalled the long, rich conversations they had shared—those intimate exchanges where every word seemed imbued with the very essence of their souls. The thought of losing such communion filled her with a gnawing despair.
Kate’s slender hand, trembling ever so slightly, found its way to nudge the broad shoulder of Spot, as if to rouse him from an introspective stupor. “You’re acting queer tonight,” she said, her voice a blend of playful reproach and genuine concern.
Spot, his gaze fixed unwaveringly upon the depths of his glass, replied in a tone that held little mirth, “Queer, is it? How so?” His question, though light in its cadence, betrayed an inner turmoil that he sought desperately to conceal.
With a half-smile that faltered under the weight of unsaid truths, Kate went on. "Secrets.”
“Always kept something back,” he replied in a tone laced with a wry, self-deprecating humor. But even this attempt at levity fell short of dispelling the somber gravity that seemed to pervade his manner. Before she could press further, Spot drained his whiskey with a single, resolute gulp and rose, his movement marked by a determined air. Leaning in so that only she might hear, his low voice conveyed, “You’ve been scarce.”
Startled, Kate turned swiftly, forcing a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Busy,” she answered with a note of guarded cheerfulness.
Spot’s gaze, now sharp and appraising, bore into her as if to search for the truth behind the veil of her nonchalance. “Busy running?” he queried, his eyes narrowing with an intensity that opposed his casual tone.
“Not from you,” she admitted with a delicate shrug.
There was a curious tenderness in his silence thereafter. Spot did not chide her when, in a moment of impulsive abandon, she grasped a stranger’s arm to guide herself down the creaking, second-floor stairs of the pub in her precariously high-heeled boots. Nor did he protest when she, with a few deft motions, settled the bill for drinks and victuals before he had uttered so much as a request. Perhaps, Kate thought with a wistful sigh, such actions were sufficient recompense for the unspoken debt of care they owed each other.
“Tom,” she began softly, her eyes reflecting a mixture of wonder and woe, “I had a talk with Genevieve Marquette and May Mahoney when I first arrived.” Her voice, laced with a wistful resignation, held both humor and sorrow in equal measure.
Spot inclined his head, his gaze attentive yet troubled, for he too sensed a strange, intangible melancholy that had been stirring within his breast. “Well, go on, Katherine,” he urged with a half-smile, “what riveting conversation did you have with these women of the night?”
Kate sighed, as if releasing a burden of secrets. “Genevieve is a refined and somewhat tragic French dame, I’ll have you know, and she spoke of the fine line between respectability and perdition—a line she herself had trodden in those grand old days when her beauty and her wiles had commanded both admiration and disdain. The world had cast her into the role of a courtesan, Tom, and yet, in her heart, she maintained a peculiar dignity. ‘In the theater of life,’ she told me, ‘one must perform the role bestowed upon us, however sordid the script might be.’ And then there was May, who declared that the very misfortune of her calling was not a curse but a kind of liberation—a freedom born of necessity. She, too, is wise, Tom, and she’s survived the ceaseless vicissitudes of a world that would have devoured her spirit.”
“You make it all sound so tragic and justified.”
“Because it is. They revel in the paradox. They’re mothers, yes, but also women, Tom. Their lives were steeped in the art of seduction and subterfuge, the very art that, in our city’s underbelly, often proves to be the sole means of survival. Genevieve told me she had once loved a man fiercely, and that was Marquette’s father. And May enjoys her independence. She’s learned that a woman’s worth isn’t measured solely by the regard of others, but by the strength with which she weathers the storms of fate. And I found myself both chastened and uplifted by that.”
“By what?”
“By their words, Tom. Aren’t you listening? How the world seeks to confine us, to label us as sinners, or worse, as lost souls. But there’s always redemption. Every act of transgression carries with it a possibility for transformation, that the very stains of our past could, if met with resolve, be cleansed in some great fire of renewal, outside of a church or courtroom.”
Spot’s gaze grew intense, and for a moment, the space between them seemed to pulse. “And kind of redemption do you think you need, Kate?” he inquired in a low, resonant tone.
Kate’s heart fluttered as she met his eyes, and she felt, in that shared glance, an electricity that transcended the ordinary. “Oh, Tom,” she whispered, “even a soul battered by life’s merciless blows may yet find solace in the simplest affirmations of love and dignity. I’ve always feared that I might become a ghost of myself, a fading echo of lost conversations and unfulfilled dreams. But tonight, I want to reclaim something pure. Something unmarred by the ugliness of judgement.”
Spot’s expression softened, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of admiration and the hesitant promise of a confession unspoken. “Kate,” he murmured, so quietly that he wasn’t sure Kate had heard him, his voice trembling with a fervor that betrayed his usual calm, “if only I could gather the courage to tell you what my heart wants to keep secret…” But before the remainder of his sentiment could fully emerge, Kate’s attention was on the new glass of whiskey that appeared before her on the countertop.
“On the house, miss,” the bartender said with a charming smile. "From May Mahoney."
In a sudden burst of irreverent exultation, she declared, “This is the most wonderful night of my life!” The words, however, escaped her lips with an abruptness that soon filled her with regret, as she pondered which ears might have caught such a forthright outcry. Hastily, she turned her gaze to the timeworn floorboards, strewn with sawdust and the evidence of past spills—a grim mosaic that served to absorb the stains of careless abandon. For a fleeting moment, she imagined the clamor of unseen reproach from a haughty Bowery girl—one who had, in earlier whispers, assailed her with biting remarks regarding her dress. Such thoughts of having inadvertently insulted that particular young lady made her heart contract, for she had never intended to offend with careless apologies, even as her lips had trembled with unspoken contrition.
At that juncture, as if destiny had taken a mischievous turn, one of the erstwhile Manhattan newsies—a man whose charm and rough-edged eloquence had earned him the sobriquet Racetrack Higgins—cut into their midst. It was the second encounter between Kate and this roguish fellow, whose sunken eyes and confident grin bespoke a lifetime of urban escapades. Approaching with a buoyant air, he greeted, “Hiya, Claire,” his voice both rakish and self-assured, as if his greeting carried the weight of the city’s secrets.
"Katherine," she almost said, then let the name slide off into the sawdust with the rest of the night.
Her silk stocking gave way the instant she sat. For ten foolish minutes it was all she could think about—the small ladder in her memory to match the one in the weave—until the bartender urged a tab, and she, obligingly, opened one.
The bar itself was a grand, lengthy edifice of polished mahogany, stretching along one entire side of the room like a venerable monument to bygone splendor. Its surface, smooth as a mirror and worn by countless clinking glasses and calloused hands, bore witness to innumerable stories of joy and despair. Behind it, the shelves displayed an array of whiskey, ale, and a modest selection of wines—a veritable treasure trove of libations. Above all, a chalkboard, its chalk dust smudged by the hands of many a patron, boldly proclaimed the day’s specials in a script that harked back to simpler times.
It was true, as Cards had so astutely observed earlier, that the repast on offer was unparalleled in its variety. Kate had never before witnessed such a bountiful spread assembled for so many—a veritable cornucopia of fare including beef & cabbage, stew, soda bread, colcannon, oysters, treacle tart, and more besides. Each dish, a testament to both resourcefulness and rustic culinary tradition, lent the room an air of both festivity and weary indulgence.
With deliberate care and a quiet determination, Kate prepared a modest plate in thanks for her escort, Grim—a man of sturdy frame and a spirit, Kate described, as resilient as the ancient stones upon which he had built his life. Kate arranged a serving of soda bread, a hearty helping of colcannon, and a portion of potato farls with a tenderness reserved for the most cherished of companions. As she carried this small token of gratitude to where Grim sat—his weathered face softened by the dim amber glow of the bar—Rails Kennedy, an ex-Refuge con whose origins lay in the sun-scorched lands of Arizona and whose blood ran with a curious mixture of Turkish warmth and Irish resilience, called out with lazy charm for Kate to do the same for him.
“What would you like, Kennedy?” Kate asked.
“Surprise me,” Rails replied, his words infused with a playful irony that made Kate’s heart quicken despite itself.
With an eye roll that was both affectionate and exasperated, Kate returned bearing a bowl of hearty stew, a plate laden with succulent sausages, and, not least, a treacle tart whose sweetness promised a brief respite from the bitter strains of the night. Rails, who had paused mid-drink to regard her with a mixture of amusement and approval, then lifted his eyes to meet hers.
“So,” Kate prodded with a heavy, conspiratorial sigh, “will I at least receive some murmured thanks from you?”
“Katherine, darlin’, I can’t eat this,” Rails replied in a tone that was at once teasing and sincere.
“You’re not practicing in that regard,” Kate retorted, a mischievous spark in her voice. “I’ve seen you at pork.”
“Not the sausages. The tart. You know I ain’t got no sweet tooth—” Before Rails could finish, Tide reached over and deftly snatched the tart from Rails’ plate.
“Thanks, Katherine,” he said simply, his accent thick as molasses and his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Kate turned away with an eye roll and a slight wince.
Rails’s mischievous smile widened as he leaned closer to Tide, his voice low and conspiratorial amid the din of clinking glasses and rowdy conversation. “Tell me, Tide,” he drawled in that rich, southern cadence tempered by a roguish lilt, "you got a packet of French letters?”
Tide raised a bushy eyebrow and allowed himself a brief, indulgent chuckle. “Might do,” he replied.
Even as their banter mingled with the low, earthy music of the night, a different murmur drifted through the crowded room. “Tracey’s, ain’t she?” came a gruff murmur from a pair of men who passed Kate by the bar. The remark, crude and unbidden, sent a subtle shudder through her, and she paused mid-step, her stomach tightening with a familiar blend of indignation and wistfulness. Yet the men, lost in their own mirth, turned away with soft laughter that scarcely concealed their disdain.
Kate, determined to avoid further unwanted scrutiny, ducked away from the hulking presence of Colm Tracey—a man whose very form seemed to dominate the space, his voice resonant and his manner uncannily familiar. As she sauntered past him, she could not help but notice how he pressed May Mahoney close, as though she were a former mistress. A bitter gratitude welled within her that she had never known her own father, Edward, to act thus with her mother, Effie, in front of her—though she harbored no particular affection for him. Something about Colm unsettled her deeply—perhaps it was the way his voice, bold and unmistakable, carried above the din of the crowd, or the manner in which his every gesture exuded a predatory familiarity that she could neither define nor dismiss. Shaking off the disquiet, she resolved to silence such thoughts with another drink.
Returning to the bar, Kate settled her open tab with a series of drinks—beer, then whiskey, then back to beer and whiskey—until the hour crept on and even the notion of coffee began to seduce her parched lips. Finally, she eased herself onto a mismatched wooden chair at one of the tables scattered across the ground floor. The small oil lamp, its flame trembling in the cool draft, lent a flickering illumination to the faces of the patrons. Some leaned languidly against the bar, while others huddled around the round tables near the modest coal stove—their primary source of warmth on such a chill night. The walls, draped with faded prints of Irish landscapes and an antique map of Ireland, bore portraits of storied Irish political figures. Among these, the visage of Charles Stewart Parnell shone most distinctly, though the other faces were as foreign to her as distant memories. Green ribbons and paper shamrocks, humble tokens of the season’s revelry, adorned the walls in a festive yet subdued manner.
Kate’s gaze lingered upon the assemblage of women whose sharp tongues and wry laughter filled the room with an intoxicating mix of scandal and self-mockery. She had scarcely recovered from her own private anxieties when the conversation among the ladies resumed with renewed vigor, a dialogue as unvarnished and potent as the spirits that fueled it.
“Honestly, I’d much rather Stef engage in a fleeting dalliance than be mired in the cold, platonic rigidity of a so-called romantic attachment,” declared Marianna in her dry, cornsilk tone, each syllable edged with a sardonic humor borne of long experience.
Her remark drew a chorus of murmurs, and as if in swift accord, Camille, with her clear, incisive voice, replied, “Bien sûr, one does not forsake a partner solely for the act of infidelity. Rather, one departs when love itself—true, consuming love—has withered. In truth, even the wild flights of fancy might be deemed an act of betrayal if they replace genuine passion.”
Colleen, ever the dreamer with a wistful air, sighed—a sound reminiscent of a forlorn lullaby—and swept a golden strand of hair from her eyes. “I spend my life in that realm of dreams,” she confessed, voice soft as a whispered secret. “When I make love, I find myself lost in my own fantasies: thoughts of James Hackett, of Christy Mathewson, and even of Jim Jeffries—all conjured by my imagination, unbound by who’s really on top of me.”
A tipsy giggle from Bella, whose eyes sparkled with mischievous delight, punctuated the exchange. “Oh, Christy Mathewson!” she exclaimed in a breathless tone, as if the very mention of his name were an incantation that could summon him.
“But listen here,” Camille interjected, raising her champagne flute as if to toast a particularly scandalous truth, “imagine, if you will, that in the intimate darkness of your bed there exists but one, real man, whose visage and presence occupy your every thought—that’s a stark contrast to dreams you now entertain. Does that not alter the nature of our desire? If it’s a man you know in life, not merely in story?”
Marianna nodded gravely, her eyes reflecting the burdens of both pleasure and sorrow. “Aye, and Colleen, yours are dreamy indeed. Hackett is an actor, Mathewson a baseball player, and Jeffries, heavyweight champion. What we’re speaking of is entertaining fantasies of a man you know in the flesh, one who might actually have you.”
Bella, unable to resist, leaned close to Colleen with a conspiratorial smile. “Dare I say, like when you think of Grim Krause?” she teased, the name dripping with both affection and a hint of ribald jest.
Colleen’s protest was immediate and vehement. “I do not!” she declared, though a reluctant echo in the eyes of those gathered betrayed that perhaps, in truth, she did.
“Do, too!” came the jubilant retort of Leah from another corner, and the table erupted in a burst of laughter—a raucous, unrefined sound that seemed to shake the very rafters of the old building.
As the discourse shifted, Camille, ever the mediator in this rough-hewn assembly, gently steered the conversation toward lighter fare. “My poor Colleen,” she remarked, “while you pine for these romantic illusions, let us not forget that even Cohen and Maddie seem to fare better in their turbulent liaisons.” Her eyes twinkled as she gestured subtly toward Aaron Cohen, who sat elsewhere with a petite, dark-haired beauty perched on his lap.
“Maddie sleeping with Cohen’s friend,” Bella mused, her tone a mix of awe and irony, “has set the very embers of desire alight in Cohen.”
“Oh, was she the one who cheated?” Colleen ventured hesitantly.
Bella, feigning exhaustion at the ever-shifting nuances of modern romance, laughed, and soon the conversation wound its way through observations on the night’s fare—ranging from the dubious pairing of Beaujolais with corned beef and stew, to the enigmatic presence of the red-haired duchess herself, Medda Larkson, in sumptuous silks whose abstinence from drink was as striking as it was mysterious.
“Do you think she’s expecting?” Marianna asked with a mix of genuine concern and bawdy amusement, eliciting a chorus of incredulous murmurs.
“At her age?” came Camille’s retort, as if the very notion were a scandal in itself.
“Is that David Jacobs?” Bella inquired, craning her neck and rising on her tiptoes with an impish curiosity that betrayed both youthful exuberance and a longing for mystery. Her voice, soft yet edged with a trace of scandalous wonder, drifted above the low hum of the gathering. “He’s so mysterious. Surely he’s a writer, or some kind of intellectual, isn’t he?”
Camille brushed a stray lock of hair from Bella’s face with an almost maternal tenderness. “Ma chérie,” she admonished gently yet firmly, “do not be so easily beguiled by mere appearances. David, for all his reticence, shrouds himself in silence to bestow upon himself airs of mystery. As Mark Twain once remarked, ‘It is better to keep your mouth shut and appear stupid than open it and remove all doubt.’”
Before the remark could settle into silence, Colleen nudged Camille in a teasing manner. “Don’t be so mean,” she chided, her tone light yet unmistakably sincere. “Remember, he’s Sarah’s own brother, and by all accounts, a gentleman of considerable kindness.”
Marianna’s eyes widened in astonishment, and she interjected with a mixture of incredulity and mirth, “No way! I always fancied that dear Sarah concocted his very existence as a clever stratagem to stop our teasing about her having never seen a man naked before.” Her remark, half in jest and half in genuine surprise, elicited a ripple of raucous laughter once more among the assembled company—a laughter that mingled with the clamor of clinking glasses and the low murmur of boisterous conversation.
Kate eased herself from her chair and made her way to the far end of the room where the evening’s repast lay in humble array. Her eyes, keen and restless as ever, roved over the assorted fare until they rested upon a delicate arrangement of treacle tarts—confections she had often admired in the window displays of Manhattan bakeries, yet never before had she permitted herself the indulgence of tasting one. In that moment of quiet, solitary curiosity, the tart’s glossy, sticky surface promised a sweetness that might, for a fleeting instant, redeem the bitter tang of the world.
From her left, carried on the low murmur of intoxicated conversation, came a raucous remark that caught her attention. “I’ve come to love it when he calls me, ‘you little slut’ in bed,” declared a blonde woman with a voice slurred by too many drinks. Her tone was unreserved and bawdy—a revelation not meant for polite ears but which, in its unvarnished candor, stirred both amusement and a trace of disquiet in Kate. The woman’s companion, a redhead draped in a well-worn fur coat, closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head in feigned disapproval, as though the raw confession had left her both satiated and a trifle indignant. “Oh, ‘bitch,’ on the other hand, really gets on my nerves,” the blonde continued.
“No, no—‘bitch’ is acceptable, if one considers it in proper context,” the redhead replied, her tone measured despite the wine and laughter. “For instance, ‘little bitch’ possesses an altogether different ring from ‘bitch’ alone. And, dare I say, ‘naughty bitch’ carries a certain sweet insinuation that I find rather endearing.”
“Nonsense, God, no!” the blonde retorted with a hearty laugh, nearly losing her balance and nearly tumbling to the floor. The exchange was raucous, raw—a glimpse into a world of debauched honesty where vulgarity was worn as a badge of survival.
With a wry smile playing on her lips, Kate picked up one of the treacle tarts and began to withdraw from the immediate cluster of debauchery. With a hesitant glance over her shoulder, she found herself staring at the side profile of the blonde as she turned, revealing Nell Anderson’s smug smile at the redhead’s laughter. Kate quickly whisked herself away. Each step she took grew increasingly measured and deliberate—first slow and thoughtful, then hastened as if pursued by the very weight of her own introspection. Her dress, already ill-fitted and heavy with the exertions of the night, seemed to multiply in weight, as though burdened with grains of sand, each one a tiny testament to the world’s indifference. Her hair, slick with perspiration, clung to her brow and forehead like seaweed washed ashore by a restless tide.
Seeking a moment’s respite, Kate leaned against a rough-hewn wall near the narrow stairs that led upward to the quieter parts of the establishment. She closed her eyes, and in that brief reprieve, time stretched languidly—each heartbeat echoing like a distant drumbeat, each silent second laden with the weight of her worries. It was as if a million years passed in that solitary, fragile instant.
Suddenly, a light tap upon her shoulder shattered the trance. Startled, Kate jolted upright, her heart pounding as she spun to face the source of the disturbance. An older woman, her hair the hue of russet embers and her eyes a dull blue that had seen many an autumn, stood before her. The woman’s hair scarf was modest, and her apron bore the indelible stains of flour and long labor. Kate recognized her as the barmaid who had earlier tended her with a kind yet brisk manner.
“Don’t you panic, love,” the barmaid soothed in a gentle, maternal tone, her voice low and soft enough to contrast with the boisterous clamor around them. “I was merely wondering if you were all right. You don’t look so…” Her question trailed off as she noted the forlorn tart still clutched in Kate’s trembling hand, its edges crumpled like a secret in the dim lamplight.
“Do you need water?” the barmaid ventured kindly.
Kate, unwilling to meet those compassionate eyes, lowered her gaze as though to hide the tempest in her own soul. “No,” she murmured, her voice scarcely above a whisper.
In that mirror opposite, the wall glared back at her with unyielding honesty—its dark, watchful reflections capturing the shadows that circled her glazed, uncertain eyes. Kate recognized all that was raw and vulnerable within her.
Kate was, in truth, a fragile wisp of a being—overwhelmed and verging upon a collapse of spirit.
“Go home, dear, and get some sleep,” the barmaid’s voice had intoned, its admonition a balm against the storm of her thoughts. Sleep? Kate felt an ironic amusement bubble within her—for in the past week, slumber had become as elusive as a whispered secret. She was, indeed, afraid to linger in wakefulness, yet the specter of sleep, with its attendant dreams and vulnerabilities, filled her with a dread of its own.
Clutching a tart in her hand—a treacle tart whose delicate perfume of golden syrup and caramel teased her senses—the sweet confection gnawed persistently at her mind, a reminder of pleasures both simple and profound. She cast a furtive glance toward the tables, where familiar faces reveled in their hearty indulgences. There, Spot appeared as a spectral figure in an armchair—his enormous, well-defined left arm, like a living sculpture of determination, cradling his head beneath a floral throw. Nearby, Leah lounged cross-legged in a chair, the tendrils of smoke from her cigarette swirling in the air like ephemeral ghosts.
“Remember how we used to be?” came a boisterous reminiscence from a group huddled near the bar. “Kissing in dark alleys, skinny-dipping, and puffing on hashish in Central Park!” A flick Leah’s hair, a burst of laughter into a cigarette, and the room seemed momentarily transported to another time—a time when life was as heady as the strongest brandy and as reckless as the daring exploits of youth. Long-legged Marquette, ever the droll observer, chuckled deeply, his chair’s front legs rising slightly off the floor as he leaned back in mirth.
Then, breaking through the cacophony, Spot’s voice rang out—a low, almost conspiratorial utterance. “Hey, has anyone seen Katherine?” he called, his tone measured yet imbued with a curious warmth.
A French murmur from none other than Marquette replied, “Katherine? Ouai, she’s around.” At the very sound of her name, Kate’s heart faltered, and a shiver ran along her spine as if the utterance had conjured both memory and fear.
With a determined delicacy, she tiptoed up the narrow staircase to the second floor—a quiet refuge in a building that, for all its chaotic closeness, offered moments of solitude. The corridor was adorned with walls painted in a soft violet hue, and a modest grey rug lay strewn about the floor. A generous, south-facing window, its panes aglow with moonlight, spilled silver luminescence across the threshold. Discarded bottles lay like silent relics of past revelries, yet in one corner, a solitary chair beckoned, promising a moment to catch her breath and collect her fractured thoughts.
There, in that hallowed stillness, Kate’s heart pounded steadily against her ribs as her trembling hands, pale and uncertain, clutched the remnants of her tart. With a quiet, almost sacred deliberation, she shoved aside the paper holder that threatened to mar the fragile pastry, and at length, she allowed herself a single, dreamy bite. The taste was rich and indulgent—a sweetness that recalled the sumptuous decadence of a bygone era, its fragrance mingling with the faint, musty aroma of the bar. As she savored that moment, her thoughts drifted to the expensive art book she had so recently borrowed from Mary O’Connell’s library—a tome resplendent with illustrations and sepia-toned portraits of aristocrats, heroines, the verdant countryside, and the noble toils of the working class. In her dreams, she imagined herself as the artist of these fields and trees, yet the vision was marred by a sudden rush of shame and self-reproach. Moist crumbs, like fleeting tokens of time, landed upon her lap, and with a quiet shake of her head, she dispelled the intrusive images that threatened to spoil the delicate beauty of the moment.
But hunger and desire warred within her still, for the tart, the shepherd’s pie, and the hearty colcannon wrestled for dominion inside her stomach—each morsel a clamor for relief against the constriction of her ever-tightening corset. Her body, worn thin by nights of scant opium and relentless worry, cried out for that elusive escape. Exhaling slowly, with the measured resignation of a soul resigned to its fate, Kate rose and made her way to the ladies' retiring room—a small sanctuary tucked away at the back.
Upon entering, she was greeted by the soft, flickering glow of etched gas lamps, their light dancing upon a gold-framed mirror that stretched almost the full length of the wall. The room was painted in a gentle, pale lavender hue, its walls adorned with delicate floral motifs reminiscent of drifting petals. Below, immaculate white wainscoting gleamed like a promise of quiet order. A modest, velvet-upholstered bench rested in a corner, while a lace curtain at the window allowed a slender beam of streetlight to slip softly in.
Kate inhaled deeply, the mingling scents of rosewater and the warm, musty odor of the bar below filling her with a fleeting sense of calm. Finding the bathroom blissfully unoccupied, she entered one of the stalls and knelt upon a cream-colored rug, embroidered with faint, intricate patterns of leaves and flowers.
The more Kate induced a fit of self-sickness, the more she felt herself diminish, as though her very form were melting away under the weight of a relentless inner decay. Her once-curved belly seemed to vanish, expelled by the ceaseless purging of colcannon and shepherd’s pie, beer and whiskey, and even the once-delicate treacle tart she now clutched as though it were both sustenance and symbol of all that was transient in her life.
Weariness overcame her as her trembling legs—no stronger than fragile reeds in a storm—carried her to a marble countertop that gleamed with an austere, timeless beauty. There, a porcelain washbasin, its edges delicately curved and its brass faucet polished to a soft, genteel shine, stood as an altar of quiet reflection. Gently, Kate reached for her silk handkerchief and dabbed at her fevered forehead, each motion a quiet plea for relief. As if by a small miracle, the suffocating grip of her corset slackened its hold on her ribs, and her stomach, beleaguered by the night’s excesses, settled into a brief calm. Beside the basin, a crystal perfume bottle caught her eye—a small, shining relic with a silver cap that glimmered under the soft lamp-light. She exhaled deeply once more, savoring the momentary liberation from the oppressive pressure that had so long defined her frame, before her gaze was drawn to the miniature, gold-framed portrait suspended above the counter. The painting, a delicate depiction of a woman amidst a blossoming, flowery garden, reminded Kate unbidden of Julia—blonde, beautiful, and seemingly content—a vision of what might have been had life been less marred by its ceaseless indignities.
Yet, as if all the indulgences and torments of the evening were colluding against her, Kate found that even her body rebelled further. Sinking once more upon the carpeted floor, she allowed herself to slide and wriggle, her limbs seeming to come apart at the seams. Dust motes danced in the dim light, eliciting an occasional sneeze, as she buried her head in her trembling knees. She resembled a forlorn mummy—eyes wide open in silent protest, her body battered and her throat parched. A shiver and a bead of sweat betrayed the cold that had seeped into her very bones, while a dull, aching pain in her stomach raged on with relentless persistence.
Then, amid the raw solitude of her disintegration, a voice—quiet yet insistent—rose unbidden in her mind. “What in God’s name is Nell Anderson doing here?” Kate whispered, her words a mingling of dread and disbelief. The memory of the barmaid’s concerned inquiry, the echo of that gentle admonition, flitted through her mind, intensifying her fear. For Nell Anderson, that merciless specter from the past, had haunted her nights and nearly claimed her life long ago.
Kate’s mind drifted back to a time when she was scarcely more than a child—only eleven years of age—when the first stern ministrations of a real doctor had forced her into a world of harsh remedies. She recalled her escape from the confines of her mother’s modest tenement to the imposing, lively Kina camp, her pockets bulging with pilfered tinctures and stolen opium elixirs. Mrs. Leonora Kina, with her breath redolent of Turkish tobacco and a perfume of amber, had once whisked her away to see Dr. Sommerfield. That doctor, glasses precariously sliding down his nose, had taken her tiny wrist in his large, imposing hand and pronounced, “You, my child, are the same as many an urchin of this city. You are dangerously malnourished.” His admonitions—to consume more nourishing fare, to gain a mere four pounds—had etched themselves into her memory as a stark reminder of her vulnerability. And after that, the doctors had ceased their ministrations, leaving her to face the world on her own battered terms.
Closing her eyes, Kate could almost feel the dampness of her tears, as silent and heavy as a winter’s snowfall, creeping down her cheeks. In that muted, oppressive silence, thoughts—insidious and unyielding—gnawed at her, whispering that she was nothing but a frail, defeated wraith. “Nell Anderson! That accursed name!” she screamed silently inward, scolding herself for having forgotten how to live, for letting herself wither in isolation. “When was the last time you did something worthwhile? Useless!” The voice of self-rebuke was relentless, a cruel echo of every moment spent hiding away from her friends, of every time she had allowed only Spot’s rare kindness, the solace of an art book lent by Mary, and a few hash-laced cigarettes snatched from Grim, to serve as her only companions.
She tried to rise, to run, but her legs, feeble as straw, betrayed her. “Get strong,” she vowed aloud, her voice scarcely rising above a whisper as she swallowed a mouthful of dust, “and become a person again by the end of this year.” The words, fragile as spun glass, were both a promise and a lament.
Disoriented, Kate could not recall the precise moment she stumbled from the powder room, nor the disjointed cadence with which she reentered the noisy whirl of the party. Yet, as she stepped once more into that tumultuous mass of bodies and voices, she was buoyed, if only faintly, by the recollections of Genevieve Marquette and May Mahoney—the soft, hushed admonitions of those wise, worldly women who had earlier sought to raise her from despair. Their words, meant to buoy her spirit even as she felt fragmented and unwhole, lingered like a fragile promise amid the roar of merriment.
Now, as Kate moved uncertainly through the crowd, her eyes, darting and searching, sought the familiar, comforting silhouette of Spot. His quiet smile, observed earlier, had seemed to carry a question—a silent inquiry into her state of being. Yet, in that crowded uproar, with her heart a mayhem of conflicting desires and fears, Kate was not sure whether to seek him out or to continue to hide away, cloaked in the protective anonymity of the masses.
Kate’s senses snapped to attention when, in the midst of her wandering musing, she nearly collided with seven-year-old Henry Krause—a diminutive figure whose cerulean eyes, round as half-dollars freshly minted, shone with a startling clarity, and whose dirty blonde hair, arranged as if by an unseen hand in recent combings, lent him an air of precocious neatness.
“Henry! What—” she began, startled by his sudden approach.
“Hi,” the boy said in a casual drawl that opposed his tender years, extending a small hand toward hers. “Come on. You know checkers, don’t you?”
Before she could reply, a firm hand fell upon the boy’s shoulder. Looking up, Kate found Grim looming behind Henry like a living bulwark of fatherly authority. “This little yutz snuck out an hour after we left. He’s headed home soon—the barkeep found him a board.”
Henry tugged insistently at Kate’s arm, urging her further into the fray. “Well? Do you know how to play?” he demanded with the earnestness of a street-wise youth accustomed to the rough rhythms of the underworld Grim fought so hard to protect him from.
“Are you kidding?” Kate retorted with a note of ironic mirth, addressing both Grim and the impish youngster. “I fancy myself nearly the champion of checkers, if not the very world’s champion.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed into a look of determined mischief as he pulled her along. “Have you any money?” he inquired.
“You wager for money?” she teased in turn, her tone a wry nod to the absurdities of urban life in which even the smallest coin held weight.
With an almost roguish grin playing upon his angelic features that would surely get him in trouble later in life, Kate fretted, Henry reached for the battered checkerboard that rested atop a timeworn table, upon which lay a half-empty mug of ale. It was a relic of Grim’s earlier indulgence. “A penny a game,” Henry said. “Can you manage it?”
Kate could not help but whistle, which was a sound both half-amused and incredulous. “A high stake,” she observed, though her tone betrayed a bemused admiration for the child’s straightforward candor.
“For you,” Henry grinned, and for a brief moment, Kate paused against the cool, rough-hewn stone of the staircase. The presence of children, so raw and unfiltered in their speech, always made her uneasy. Their language, unburdened by the artifice of polite society, could cut as keenly as any blade. Until now, she had seldom been in the company of such unsullied souls, and the fear that she might utter something foolish, especially under Grim’s piercing, watchful gaze, made her heart flutter with nervous apprehension.
Instead of seating herself, Kate remained standing, her eyes fixed upon Henry’s blond head, which shone beneath the flickering gaslight as if it might grow into a richer hue akin to the golden warmth of honey or the deeper tints of Natalie’s hair.
“Ms. Mary won’t be troubled,” Henry suddenly declared in a conspiratorial whisper, as if divulging a precious secret. “I did sneak out behind her, while she slept in her rocking chair.” His tone, imbued with the mischievous satisfaction of one who has recounted a favorite tale to his companions, carried the unmistakable cadence of street lore.
“Ah,” Kate murmured softly. Against her better judgment, she reached out and, with a tenderness that called into question her inner turmoil, ran her fingers through his surprisingly soft curls—clean, as if it had been freshly combed—and noted its gentle, soap-like fragrance. “I can’t believe she got you to bathe. Only last week you swore off such baths,” she chided gently.
Henry’s face scrunched briefly in a grimace he quickly concealed with a shrug. “Don't want lice,” he replied matter-of-factly, mimicking Mary’s voice, drawing a wry chuckle from Kate.
“I shall drink to that,” she added, her voice light with ironic amusement.
After a brief exchange of banter and teasing laughter, Kate seated herself beside the boy. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the proximity of Grim’s stern, paternal presence might be too imposing. Yet the memory of her own inebriation—though a tumultuous state—reminded her that her present condition was not one to be spread like a contagion.
“You’re mighty flushed,” observed Henry, his small hand offering a stack of worn checkers as though it were a treasured gift.
Kate attempted a laugh, though it emerged stiff and brittle. “Thank you,” she replied, her hand brushing lightly against her dress as if to smooth out imaginary creases. She cast a furtive glance toward Grim, whose tired yet vigilant eyes seemed to assure her that she was safe under his unyielding care.
“So, what’s your strategy?” she ventured, her voice trembling with both innocent curiosity and the weight of unuttered questions. Henry’s smile broadened in response, undeterred by her apprehension. As she fidgeted with a loose thread upon her sleeve—a minor distraction—she pondered, in quiet despair, why conversing with a street-wise child sometimes seemed more daunting than enduring Grim’s unwavering, scrutinizing gaze.
Then, with the boldness characteristic of youth, Henry inquired, “Why is your dress like…that?” Ignoring her own earlier query, his bright eyes darted from the fabric of Kate’s gown to the way in which the neckline of Leah’s dress fell with a daring allure, before returning to the checkerboard, which he set with a determined precision.
Kate laughed—a sound both genuine and tinged with self-mockery. “Leah lent it to me, don’t you remember?” she quipped, a playful glimmer returning to her eyes.
“I think it suits you well,” Henry replied quietly, his smile softening.
At that juncture, Tide muffled a snort into his glass, and Grim rolled his eyes and downed the remainder of his ale with a certain weariness. “I’m gonna need another round,” Grim grumbled, rising from the table with Tide at his side, and casting a brief, knowing look toward Kate—a silent charge that, until his return, the care of young Henry was entrusted solely to her.
Kate’s gaze was abruptly arrested when she noticed, with a start, a jagged gash marring the tender palm of young Henry’s right hand.
“Bottle broke,” Henry remarked matter-of-factly, as if such injuries were but commonplace misfortunes. “Mr. Tracey washed it, iced it. Said he'd buy me a drink if I didn’t cry—Papa saw anyway.”
As Kate studied the small injury, the low, rough voices of men at a nearby table drifted over in a series of coarse, laconically delivered jibes. “Tracey’s something else, isn’t he?” one burly fellow exclaimed, slapping his companion heartily on the back, his laughter booming like a train’s whistle through the dim smoke. “Always in the very thick of it, that man.”
Another, with a sharp Irish lilt, added, “That’s Colm for you—say what you will about his scruples, but the man sure knows how to leave an impression.”
The name, uttered in such unguarded mirth, clung to Kate’s thoughts like a stone in her shoe—a persistent reminder of a past and a reputation she wished, perhaps, to forget. She set her checker pieces aside one by one, deliberately avoiding the boy’s searching eyes, which still shimmered with an odd hopeful gleam.
After a long pause, the impish Henry, his tone now edged with curiosity, ventured, “Why were you in the privies so long?” His words, though uttered in the plain language of the street, carried a disarming frankness.
Kate lifted her gaze, a slight flush upon her cheeks. “Were you spying on me?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Henry chuckled—a short, raspy sound that seemed to come from deep within his small frame. “No, Papa told me you were,” he replied, his blue eyes bright with the honest mischief of youth. “And I wasn’t to bother you.”
“Ah,” Kate murmured, almost to herself, “I got sick.” The words, unaccustomed to her tongue in such a public setting, spilled forth with a raw vulnerability that startled her. She had never before confessed this aloud to the child.
Henry nodded sagely as if this revelation were nothing more than an expected detail of the sordid world around them. “You were drinking too much,” he stated, his tone matter-of-fact as he cocked his head, his gaze assessing her with those bright, saucer-like blue eyes. “You don’t look as though you’re drunk at all.”
“Not drunk,” Kate corrected softly, her voice imbued with a tired resolve. “Withdrawal, from opium.”
Henry’s clear blue eyes, as round as a half-dime, widened in innocent perplexity. “What's withdrawal?” he asked, his tone earnest and unadorned.
Kate paused and gathered her thoughts as though weighing each syllable against the harsh realities of her existence. “When your body’s used to a thing and you stop. It makes you ill.”
“How, then?” Henry inquired.
Kate, who had once been as inquisitive as he, felt a pang of disquiet at his probing. “I read great books—philosophy, medicine, and law—and sometimes I smoke my hash-laced cigarettes,” she murmured, her voice trembling as if confessing a sin too weighty for mere words.
“Those bad-smelling cigarettes?” the boy echoed.
Kate nodded, a wry smile ghosting across her lips. “Yes, or I spend time with—” She hesitated, clearing her sore throat. “With Spot.”
Henry’s eyes shone with a mixture of impish mischief and genuine wonder. “Is that why your door is always locked?” he demanded with unguarded bluntness. “He distracts you?”
Kate threw back her shoulders in a swift, defiant gesture and forced a smile that belied the turmoil in her breast. “He’s spending time with me. That, dear, is a more genteel way of saying it,” she replied.
“Man,” Henry said, shaking his head with a knowing grin, “that sure is a long time to distract someone.”
At his simple, unvarnished remark, Kate felt a fleeting twinge of suspicion that Henry understood more than he was letting on. Yet she pressed on, her tone softening. “You see, I don’t want to be sick, but there are moments when I feel so frantic, so utterly out of control, that I begin to spiral—unable to cease, unable to catch my breath. When I smoked opium, the world itself would vanish, and every care would dissolve into nothingness. It was as though I were numb—bereft of all sensation.”
She paused, astonished that such intimate torment could be uttered aloud to the young, unspoiled ears of a child. And yet, speaking the words seemed to release a small measure of the weight that burdened her heart.
Henry, with a wisdom beyond his tender years, nodded solemnly. “Like Mr. Tracey when he put ice on my hand?” he ventured.
“When I used, everything went quiet,” she said. “Then the haze lifted and I was worse. I stopped eating, washing. I felt…ugly.”
“You’re a doll," Henry said, solemn as a judge.
Kate could not help but let out a soft laugh—a laugh that held both mirth and a bitter undercurrent. Inwardly, she knew that the word “doll” was a poor, albeit affectionate, compliment given the state in which she regarded herself. The opium, that treacherous elixir, had ravaged her features in her own estimation. She possessed almond-shaped green eyes that shone with a curious, albeit gaunt, luster and a strong chin that spoke of a stubborn resilience, though neither feature had been bequeathed by her father, Edward, but rather inherited solely from Effie. Effie’s wavy, dark brown hair flowed in unrestrained abandon—a stark contrast to the pallid mien inherited from Edward, and she had inherited her diminutive stature from Effie as well, being the smallest girl in her ward at the Refuge.
The opium had not, in any wise, contributed to her loveliness. Indeed, Effie herself had once lamented that Kate’s hair was as dull and brittle as steel wool, that her cheeks were hollow and her countenance pale, and that her very lymph nodes seemed to swell with a sorrow unspoken. What was more, the opium left a tar-like residue upon her teeth, an unsightly memento of indulgence. Lillian Russell and Evelyn Nesbit, icons of feminine allure in their own right, had nothing to fear from Kate’s semblance—she would not, in any case, grace the covers of Harper’s Weekly or Ladies’ Home Journal this day.
“So, move already,” Henry urged, both playful and insistent.
With a flicker of defiant resolve, Kate shoved a checker piece into its square on the battered board, all the while the young rogue’s bright eyes never leaving hers.
“Have you always smoked opium?” Henry inquired suddenly, his voice carrying the unvarnished candor of the street.
Kate’s lips curled into a rueful smile as she attempted to conjure an image of herself at the tender age of six—a small, wide-eyed child furtively packing a bowl in secret indulgence. “No,” she replied softly. “I’ve always suffered from a most pernicious inability to sleep. I’ve tried every remedy one might name—chamomile tea, valerian root, lavender and rose oils, warm milk sweetened with honey, Mrs. Winslow’s soothing syrup, bromide salts, laudanum—but this opium, alas, was a luxury that began only a few years past.”
Henry, his gaze fixed on the checkerboard as he carefully eased a piece forward, remarked, “Doc can fix anybody. He'll stitch my hand and set you right."
Before Kate could reply, a new voice, as lilting as a whisper and as familiar as a childhood lullaby, interposed. Ro Moretti, a diminutive figure in the throng, appeared at the table—a young boy with a certain impish grace standing at her side, clutching her hand. “You walked past me without a hello, cara mia,” Ro chided gently, a teasing smile curving her lips.
Kate offered a playful eye roll, her expression softening into a half-amused, half-exasperated smile. “Too popular tonight,” she whispered.
Henry’s eyes flickered as he sought further explanation. Yet before any more words could be exchanged, Ro flashed him a warm, teasing grin. “Well, well, if it isn’t little Krause,” she remarked with a wink, “do you plan to best Kate at this very game of checkers tonight?”
Henry puffed out his chest with a mixture of pride and determination. “I’m getting better,” he declared, moving his checker with confidence.
The conversation turned, as it is wont to do in such rough-hewn company, with Henry’s simple words serving as both challenge and cheer. “You shouldn’t worry, Katherine,” he continued, his voice earnest. “You’re as delicate and lovely as any moll.”
At this, Kate could only offer a rueful smile, for she knew well the truth of his words.
Ro’s gaze returned to Kate, and in her deep, coffee-colored eyes there danced a playful glimmer. “Too popular, eh?” she teased in a tone both light and impish, as if the very notion were a private jest between them.
“If you abandon the game before its end, you still owe me a penny,” Henry insisted.
Kate, ever quick to match wit with caution, warned, “Put it on my tab, Henry,” she declared with a wry smile directed at the miniature figure of Grim—an echo of paternal severity rendered in youth.
With a nod and a gentle tug, Ro guided her young boy to a vacant chair opposite Henry. “This is Nick Moretti,” Henry announced to Kate with a crisp certainty. “He attends the mission school down the street, and goes to St. Anthony’s church—I see him when I’m with Miss Mary.”
Kate’s eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and admiration as she regarded the boy, marveling at how tall Jesse Tracey’s son had grown. “Hello, Nicky,” she greeted softly.
“Katherine, ask him baseball—anything that comes to mind,” Henry encouraged.
Kate herself was no stranger to the rough-and-ready world of baseball. It was a subject of fervent enthusiasm for Spot, whose passion for the game was known to all who dwelled in that gritty milieu. “AL pennant last year?” she inquired.
Nick groaned, his youthful tone laden with a mix of exasperation and a practiced weariness. “White Sox,” he replied. "Too easy."
Kate nodded in approval, though her smile faltered momentarily as her gaze wandered across the room. Her eyes, once light with mirth, darkened at the sight of Colm standing amidst a boisterous cluster of men, his hearty laughter ringing out in defiant jubilation. The manner in which Colm’s gaze swept over the crowd, with a predatory ease, set her stomach twisting into uneasy knots. Was it the potent whiskey in his veins, the stifling claustrophobia of the crowded establishment, or some more insidious quality in his very presence that disturbed her so?
“Are you all right?” Ro’s voice, sharp as a clarion call amid the din, drew Kate from her thoughts. Kate blinked, startled to find that silence had crept about her in the midst of the gaiety.
“Yes,” she muttered, rubbing her temple as though trying to dispel the encroaching disquiet, “just...too much noise, I suppose.”
But it was more than mere clamor that plagued her. There was something deeper, a disquiet that crawled beneath her skin, insidious as the city’s own underbelly.
“Come along, cara mia,” Ro urged, her hand resting lightly upon Kate’s shoulder, guiding her away from the crowd toward a quieter corner where conversation might be had away from the prying eyes of the rowdy throng.
“Play nice, boys,” Kate called after, her voice both wistful and resolute, as she followed Ro into the mass of people.
Remembering May Mahoney’s insistence that she smile through her troubles—a soft murmur of hope echoing in her mind—Kate could scarce believe that such words now seemed as distant as a half-forgotten dream. She leaned close to Ro. “How’s Nick doing?” Kate asked in a low voice, careful that none should overhear. “I haven’t seen him since last year.”
Ro’s eyes, dark and thoughtful beneath the brim of her worn hat, met hers. “He’s not too pleased that I arrived with a man who—well, struck me for taking too long to ready myself,” she replied tersely, as though the matter required no further elaboration. “But that man, he’s also the one who pays the bills. There are sacrifices to be made.”
Kate sighed, the phrase rolling over her like a bitter tincture. Her mind drifted to the small, jagged cut on Henry’s hand—how Colm Tracey had stoically washed and iced it, ensuring the lad didn’t break into tears. And then, as if in a fevered flash, her thoughts turned to Jesse Tracey, that ghost from her childhood: he had raced through the yard of the Refuge, as if pursued by hell itself, to rescue little Kate from the savage guard dogs that had once charged at her. The memories, both tender and terrible, surged unbidden.
But worse still, a repugnant recollection darkened her mind—a brute of a man, allowed by Ro’s desperate need, had once invaded her bed under the pall of financial despair, striking her in front of young Nick Tracey. A fierce wave of disgust and self-loathing crashed over her. How cruel it was that the very children—like Henry and Nick—so full of hard-earned courage were suffering, while she, in her own frailty and self-imposed isolation, had never truly possessed that brave spark. She recalled, with a heavy heart, how she had once declared to Spot that she needed no constant tending, that she felt unworthy of his kindness when so many innocent souls were in dire straits. And now, amidst the clamorous backdrop of a working man’s pub, that very truth stung: these children had valor, and she, by contrast, felt diminished.
A sudden, desperate longing surged within her—to smoke until she lost herself, to drown the guilty pulsations of her heart in a haze of opium dreams. Yet she knew better than to yield to such reckless indulgence in public. Instead, she resolved to bear it with a weary grin and to substitute one libation for another, drink after drink, as a means to stave off the swirling torment.
After a long, silent pause, Kate’s voice, edged with ironic bitterness, broke the stillness. “I’m convinced I’m adopted,” she murmured, accepting a cigarette from Ro as they stepped out into the slushy, biting snow outside The Banshee. She eased herself onto a battered crate, just as a drunken patron staggered near the door—a living relic of the night’s ceaseless festivities. “My real family's somewhere skinny and mean, drinking whiskey for breakfast."
Ro’s face flickered between a laugh and a tender frown, uncertain whether to embrace her with a hug or to chuckle at the bitter humor of it all. It was not the first time Kate had harbored suspicions of her being forsaken by her biological kin. Effie and Edward, her supposed parents, had always denied such notions, just as they denied their favoring of her little sisters—Anna, whom Effie held as perfect, and Vivvy, whom Edward praised without reserve. Kate, for her part, felt that she was only ever regarded as acceptable if one were to count Lila, the stray dog that lingered around the family’s pharmacy. In her eyes, perfection was granted only by those who fed you.
She attempted, haltingly, to explain all of this to Ro, though it was not that she wished to burden her friend with such personal sorrows. But Kate, unpracticed in the art of delicate discourse—a trait never imparted by her inarticulate parents whose words had always erupted in blunt, unrefined sounds—found herself tongue-tied whenever the subject turned to the fractures in her own identity.
Ro drew another languid drag from her cigarette, the embers of her tobacco smoldering in the dim light as she regarded Kate with a thoughtful, almost sorrowful gaze. Between them, the curling tendrils of tobacco smoke drifted upward, dissolving slowly into the overcast, gray firmament of the evening—a silent ballet of ephemeral vapors that seemed to echo the quiet melancholy of their conversation. Ro had known Kate since the tender age of seven in the Refuge, and in that long stretch of years, she had come to understand that Kate’s outpourings were often not mere idle chatter but rather a well-worn shield—a veil to conceal truths too painful, too profound to face in the light of day. Tonight, Ro chose not to rush to comfort her. She allowed Kate the unimpeded space to unburden her soul, to speak the words that lay heavy upon her heart without interruption or contrived solace.
At length, when Kate’s voice finally fell silent and the uproar of her thoughts ebbed into a quiet, trembling pause, Ro exhaled a slow, measured breath and shifted her weight against the rough-hewn wall, crossing her arms in a gesture that was both protective and resolute. “You’re not adopted,” she said in a voice soft yet imbued with an iron firmness that brooked no argument. “You’re you. That's the work.”
For a long moment, Kate’s lips twisted into a humorless, brittle smile—a smile that, though it sought to convey acquiescence, betrayed a deep-seated uncertainty. “It sounds all very nice in theory, but… I don’t feel as if I belong anywhere, Ro. I hardly know where in all this misery I fit in,” she murmured, her words heavy with self-doubt and quiet despair.
Ro regarded her friend with a pensive air, letting the chill weight of Kate’s words hang in the air. “You don’t have to fit anywhere,” Ro said. “Forge your own place. Show up. People who love you already see past the trouble.”
Kate’s eyes fell to the icy ground, and she shook her head, as if in a vain effort to dislodge the bitter truth that plagued her. “I’m not very good at being ‘me.’ I’ve tried, oh how I have tried, to improve myself—but I’m so broken in so many ways, and no one sees beyond that. All they see is the girl who’s trouble,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, laden with the sting of a truth too painful to acknowledge openly.
Ro sighed—a soft, empathetic sound—and pushed herself away from the wall, straightening her posture as if to offer a physical manifestation of her support. “Katherine, you don’t determine how the world perceives you. All you can do is show up each day and persist. People like Spot and Grim—friends who care more deeply than we often dare admit—see something in you beyond the surface. We see past the trouble, past the scars,” Ro said, pausing as her tone softened further. “You’re not alone, even if it may feel so at times.”
Kate’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, yet she refused to let them fall. Weary of sorrow and self-pity, she felt both the crushing weight of her inability to mend herself and the faint, stubborn hope that Ro’s words might be enough to sustain her through the long hours ahead. “Yeah, well,” she muttered after a long pause, kicking at the snow that had gathered at her feet outside. “I suppose we all have our troubles, don’t we?”
Ro’s laughter was soft and knowing as she lit another cigarette, the flame dancing briefly in the twilight. “That’s the truth, dear girl,” she replied, her tone wry yet gentle. “Life is a strange, unruly journey—one need not have every answer or have it all figured out. One must keep walking, and perhaps, cease to beat oneself up over those things which cannot be altered.”
Kate nodded silently, though her mind remained adrift in a swirl of uncertainty. She was not sure she wholly believed in such platitudes, but for now, the promise of persistence, of simply showing up day after day, was enough.
The door’s murmur and the low, shuffling sounds of the street outside had barely ceased when Ro’s voice, resolute and gentle, drew Kate back into the fray. The quiet between them stretched as heavily as the twilight, and then Ro, with a weary grace, glanced toward the bar where the rowdy boys still clashed over their game of checkers. With a decisive flick of her wrist, she dropped her cigarette to the ground and crushed it underfoot. “Come on,” she urged in a tone that brooked no delay, “let’s go back inside. You’re not alone with your burdens, and the night is yet young—there’s still plenty of whiskey to assuage our sorrows.”
For a long, trembling moment, Kate froze, reluctant to rejoin the furore even as the warm glow pouring from the open door promised a fleeting solace. “I can’t go back in,” Kate whispered.
“Why ever not? Mi sto congelando le tette qui fuori,” Ro retorted, her words laced with both concern and a brusque humor.
“Nell Anderson’s in there,” Kate whispered.
Ro stilled. "The witch?"
Ice baths. Hands on her wrists. The necklace gone. A cold room and colder voice.
"The same," Kate said.
"She has the gall to come here?" Ro's jaw set.
"I’m not that little girl anymore," Kate said. "But she makes me feel like I am."
Ro’s gaze softened then, and she reached out to gently touch Kate’s shoulder. “Then walk in as you are now,” Ro said. “Head high. You owe her nothing.”
“I won’t speak to her,” Kate said. “Not till I’m ready.”
Ro exhaled deeply, her eyes reflecting a quiet, determined empathy. “When you are, I'm beside you. Now let's warm up and steal their whiskey. Tonight should be fun. It’s what Jesse would’ve wanted for you…”
The mere mention of Jesse—a man long lost to the ravages of time yet whose unwavering fortitude still haunted her memories—tightened Kate’s chest. It was too much, too overwhelming to see Nell, with all her cruel remembrances, lurking behind that door. And yet, as Ro’s words settled in her heart, Kate’s resolve began to take shape.
Kate exhaled slowly, attempting to still the turbulent beating of her heart. There was no need for haste. She would not force herself to confront Nell’s specter until she was strong enough. “Thank you, Ro,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
“Always, cara mia,” Ro replied with a gentle smile. “Now, come—let’s get a drink and warm ourselves. We’ll not permit these bastards to run us down.”
“Katherine had a very close call last week,” Doc murmured in a low, measured tone that carried the weight of many hard-won experiences. His eyes, dark and keen as those of a man who had seen both the grit of the streets and the cruelty of fate, betrayed little emotion as he recalled the event. “Last week she fainted on the stairs,” he said. “Pressure crashed. Small occipital bump—no bleed, pupils equal and reactive, so I watched her till she kept water down.”
In a shadowed corner of the establishment, where the low lamplight mingled with the smoky haze of cheap tobacco and spilled ale, Julia shifted uneasily on her bar stool. Her delicate features, so often set in a mask of aristocratic composure, betrayed a certain chill in the absence of Muggs, whose presence, though crude, had an odd stabilizing effect upon her. “This happened last week?” she ventured, her voice tinged with both incredulity and a trace of dismay.
Doc nodded gravely. “Opium plus poor diet is stripping her reserves.” His tone was one of sober clinical observation, as though he were reciting findings from a case study rather than recounting a near-tragic event.
Seeking to divert the conversation from the somber subject of Katherine’s precarious health, Julia delicately changed the subject. “Then tell me, how is it that Alexei has escaped a fate so dire?” she inquired.
Doc’s features tightened with a grim knowledge. “It was dire for Morozov,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “At the Refuge they strapped him and ran a stomach tube—down the throat to the belly. Kept him alive.”
“Force-fed?” Julia echoed, her finely wrought features contorting briefly in disgust and astonishment.
Doc nodded slowly. “Yes, forced in the most brutal fashion—strapped to a chair with a thin tube inserted through his mouth, extending down his throat into his stomach.”
Julia winced at the raw, almost grotesque image. “Down his throat?” she repeated, the words heavy with revulsion.
“It’s, regrettably, the only expedient,” Doc intoned. “When one’s body is ravaged by withdrawal and poor sustenance, such measures, though harsh, become necessary for survival. Alexei would’ve surely died.”
Julia’s eyes shone with a mixture of pity and distaste. “I’d rather tour a slaughterhouse than witness such indignity,” she declared.
“Only when there’s no other way,” Doc said. “And Katherine shouldn’t come near such horrors.”
At that, Doc rose from his seat with a measured grace.
Julia groaned softly. “I need a cigarette,” she confessed, her voice trembling slightly with a need for a momentary escape from the unsavory imagery.
Julia’s eyes drifted slowly across the room until they rested upon a familiar and imposing figure near the bar. There, as though carved from hard stone and borne of a long and ruthless past, stood Nell Anderson—her eyes sharp and predatory as they swept over the assembled crowd. Though Julia had seldom seen Nell, the memory of that cruel, sardonic smirk—the very smirk that had once stripped Kate of her dignity—remained indelibly etched in her mind, as vivid and bitter as the taste of old regret.
Julia’s glance shifted to Doc, who lingered. His gaze was fixed upon his well-worn shoes, and his broad shoulders tensed visibly, betraying a discomfort that did not escape her notice. Doc, too, had sensed the presence of the accursed woman. His silence and downcast eyes spoke more eloquently than words could convey.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Julia murmured under her breath—a soft query born not of surprise but of a weary resignation. Though she needed no answer, the question hung in the heavy air like a dark omen. Doc said nothing, yet his tense posture and the way his eyes refused to lift from the worn pavement were a silent confession of his unease as Nell drifted deeper into the throng like a specter of malice.
“I believe I should find Marianna,” Doc finally declared in a subdued tone, his politeness tinged with a palpable strain. “Will you be alright?”
“Go on. I need to find the privy.”
Julia hastened toward the narrow staircase. Each step upward was measured and swift, her refined heels clicking against the cold stone as she ascended to a quieter level of the tavern—a realm away from the raucous vulgarity below. At the top, she found a door marked plainly “Lady’s Room.” With trembling resolve and a heart heavy with foreboding, she pushed it open and peered inside.
Her eyes followed the neat hem of a young girl’s dress as it rose gracefully to the neckline, until there, stark against the delicate fabric, a bruise marred the girl’s collarbone—a vivid, raw mark of cruelty. The sight was so ghastly that for a moment, Julia was forced to close her eyes, as if to shield herself from the bitter truth laid bare before her. When she reopened them, the bruise remained.
Livia Blake. Julia had known her since the year 1897, and from that time forth, the girl’s very presence had vexed her with an incessant, gnawing irritability. Liv possessed, it seemed, an infuriating flaw—a singular imperfection hidden behind a veneer of perfection. For all her outward charms, Liv’s mien was as flawless as polished marble, yet Julia could not help but note that beneath that surface lay an insidious artifice.
Julia stared at her in disbelieving wonder. The young woman, though now thinner than the memory of her former self, maintained an air of scandalous elegance. Liv was ever clad in garments that defied the strictures of respectable society: tightly laced corsets that pressed her figure into a dramatic hourglass, and dresses whose necklines plunged far lower than any proper lady of that era would dare reveal. That evening, her ensemble was no exception. The fabric clung to her hips as if it were painted upon her flesh, and strategic slits in the skirt revealed tantalizing glimpses of stockings and garters with an audacity that would scandalize the prudish. Her jet-black hair, coiffed in loose, languid waves with stray tendrils framing her delicate, heart-shaped face, contrasted starkly with her crimson-painted lips—curled into a lazy, bored pout as she nonchalantly dabbed at a bruise with a fine lace handkerchief.
She had ever been regarded as a vision of beauty, even in those days when she was said to be so laden with cocaine as to imperil the very lives of men in the notorious Hudson Duster gang. Her beauty, it was whispered, enabled her to pilfer the affections of men.
Muggs Tracey, that most rakish of rascals, was reputed, on a sultry summer eve in 1897, to have declared his undying love by escorting Julia halfway to her own lodgings. Yet Julia knew well that such declarations were as ephemeral as a summer breeze. For when Muggs emerged from the Refuge some months later, he was invariably seen in the company of Liv—an association that was as inevitable as it was discomfiting. Liv, with her prissy, form-fitting blouses of shining fabric, high collars left provocatively unbuttoned, flared skirts with elegant pleats, and Cuban-heeled boots that spoke of a rebellious flair, was as much a part of the modern, scandal-ridden stage as the very gossip of the streets.
As the years marched inexorably onward, Liv grew ever more beguiling. Her hair, now straight and glossy, cascaded past her waist like a midnight waterfall. Her dark blue eyes, framed by lashes as delicate as a porcelain doll’s, shone with a mysterious allure that confounded Julia—not out of jealousy, for Julia herself possessed a rich, golden mane and piercing blue eyes, though perhaps not quite as deep. Liv had ascended the boards of Harrigan’s Theater, performing vaudeville acts and delicate ballet interludes at that modest yet fiercely competitive venue. She had begun her career as a mere ensemble member, but her innate charisma and singular beauty had swiftly earned her starring roles. In the year 1896, she had been cast as the Sylph—the ethereal woodland fairy—in La Sylphide, a role which, though lacking the refined training of the Metropolitan Opera ballerinas, nonetheless enchanted audiences with its theatrical flourish and exaggerated grace. From that moment, her status in the world of the theater was irrevocably elevated, a source both of pride for some and of envy for others.
In time, Julia came to regard the union between Liv and Muggs as a study in toxic passion. Having witnessed many a quarrel within her own refined household and in the sordid tenements and dark alleyways where voices were raised in desperate fury, Julia thought herself well acquainted with the nature of ill-starred relationships. Yet nothing, she mused, could have prepared her for the peculiar bond that seemed to tether Liv and Muggs—a union forged not solely in the fires of love or lust, but in the grim necessity of survival. At first, Muggs had been irresistibly drawn to Liv’s beauty, her vivacity, and her laughter, which had the power to make one forget the world’s cruelties. But this attraction, it turned out, soon curdled into something darker. Liv, from the very outset, had proven to be a force of chaos—a troublemaker whose capricious moods and sharp tongue could so easily cast a man down. When Muggs failed to live up to her impossible standards, Liv would lash out with a venomous fury, branding him a failure and mocking his every flaw. Liv had even, in a moment of exasperated sorrow, sided with his father, Colm Tracey—an act of betrayal that had cut him deeply, for Liv understood well the simmering resentment Muggs harbored against that stern, imperious figure.
Yet, despite all the strife, Muggs could not extricate himself from Liv’s thrall. For she had an uncanny way of drawing him back from the brink, transforming her own cold disdain into a desperate need. She would weep bitterly, vow to mend her ways, and then offer him all she possessed—her scant, fragile self—as though love could be bartered like a common commodity. Liv believed that even the vulgar act of passion might serve to patch the fissures in their tormented union, a currency in which Muggs traded his own desperate need for control. And Muggs, for his part, reveled in the possessive thrill of owning her, cherishing the power that came from being her sole refuge in times of trouble. Yet their relationship, a tangled vortex of desire and desperation, was doomed to self-destruction. They quarreled bitterly over money, drugs, and even the smallest spoils—cocaine, cash, and trinkets pawned away in moments of acute need. Liv’s manipulations were as relentless as the tide, and Muggs’s growing resentment festered quietly beneath the surface, promising a cataclysm as inevitable as the turning of the seasons.
Then there was the letter—one which Julia had penned to Muggs during his long confinement in the Refuge. It had been written on a drunken night, with the aid of Camille, as an effort to reach him when his presence was but a distant hope. Julia had not expected any reply. But Muggs, with a furtive tenderness, had kept that letter safe. He confessed, in hushed tones, that he read it over and over, concealing it as one might a forbidden secret. It had sustained him through those miserable months, until at last Liv discovered it. The mere thought of that discovery made Julia’s stomach twist. Liv had burned the letter, obliterating what little sanctity it had represented. Though Muggs had never voiced his anguish outright, Julia perceived in his manner the deep, unspoken hurt—a breaking point that had ultimately compelled him to abandon that ill-fated liaison. In some unwitting manner, Julia had saved him, whereas Liv had destroyed something sacred, something Muggs could never forgive.
Julia, however, never allowed her heart to betray her feelings openly. And now, in the reflective gloom of the bathroom, as Julia stood alone and observed Liv through the tarnished mirror, clad in a skimpy dress and with her painted lips set in a bored, unyielding expression, a bitter cocktail of anger and pity swirled within her. Liv bore bruises now—physical marks that testified to past violences—and Julia knew, with an unaccustomed clarity, that those same scars had once been inflicted upon Muggs, leaving him forever altered. And yet, despite everything, Julia could not entirely hate Liv. In her, as in Muggs, there lay the unmistakable evidence of a self that had been fractured by a cruel society—a society that had done them both irrevocable harm. But Muggs had chosen to move on, to forsake that brutal world, and had chosen Julia as his refuge. Determined, therefore, Julia vowed not to let him be drawn back into that darkness.
As Julia turned to depart, the door betrayed her presence with a soft creak, and in that instant, Liv’s eyes snapped up in the mirror, meeting Julia’s with an intensity that was both accusing and mournful. “Hello,” Julia greeted in a courteous, measured tone.
“Julia?” came the reply, scarcely a whisper, as Liv’s eyes—deep and hollow—seemed to search for the familiar features of the girl.
“New York's a small town,” Julia ventured with a wry smile, as though the very notion of the vast city had been reduced to an ironic jest between them.
Liv merely continued to stare, her gaze fixed and implacable. For a moment, Julia was struck by the shock of recognition in Liv’s eyes—an echo of the first time she had seen her, when the memory was still unspoiled. Julia watched as Liv wiped her nose with a careful hand and inhaled sharply, as though savoring or steeling herself.
“Is that snuff?” Julia inquired politely.
“No, it’s not snuff,” Liv replied slowly and deliberately, her words edged with an anger that was almost tangible. She pressed her mouth into a thin, forbidding line.
“So, did you come here alone?” Julia asked further.
Liv glared at her, and Julia continued, “I did,” she stated simply, watching every tremor in Liv’s hands as they dabbed at the bruise on her collarbone—a subtle testament to a vulnerability that Liv had long concealed behind a mask of seduction and harsh confidence. There was something profoundly fragile about her, a fragility that unnerved Julia more than any scandal or whispered rumor ever could.
Liv had always worn her pain as if it were a badge of honor, her sharp tongue and calculated airs designed to hide her inner wounds. Yet now, in this solitary confrontation, Julia saw cracks where the mask had once been whole. Julia folded her arms, leaning casually against the worn doorframe, though within her heart a fierce fury stirred—a determination to speak the unsaid without succumbing to martyrdom.
Liv scarcely lifted her eyes, her expression neutral save for a faint smirk that bordered on derision. “What are you doing here, Julia? I never imagined that a woman of your refinement would frequent these dives,” she said, her tone curt yet layered with an unspoken challenge.
Unruffled, Julia maintained her gentle composure. “I sought a change of scenery on such a lively night,” she replied evenly, tilting her head as if to study Liv’s face. “How have you been?”
Liv’s smirk faltered, then recovered as she leaned back against the cool, worn sink, her posture exuding the confidence she always wore like armor. “I’ve been better, though who among us hasn’t?” she muttered, a trace of bitterness slipping into her tone.
“Yes, things have not been easy of late, have they?” Julia ventured softly, her eyes conveying a sympathy that was both genuine and quietly sorrowful.
Liv stiffened at this subtle implication, but she didn’t retaliate. Instead, she folded her arms and cast another measured glance at Julia. “Look,” she said briskly, “I don’t have time for idle chatter. I’m just here to have a drink and then go to the next party. You have your man, and I have mine. Let’s not complicate matters.”
Julia’s smile remained, slight yet unwavering. “I must confess, I don’t believe I’ve ever truly had a proper conversation with you. I’ve long wished for that,” she said, her voice low and sincere, “seeing as I’ve heard so much of you.”
Liv’s eyes, darkening minutely, revealed a flicker of something akin to regret or perhaps resignation. “Well, I’m not much for talking, especially with those who are privy to the entirety of one’s history,” she replied shortly, her voice sharp but softening just a touch when she met Julia’s gaze. “So, let’s leave it at that.”
“Fair enough,” Julia agreed quietly, nodding as though sealing a mutual understanding. “I trust we both have our reasons for being here. I do hope the night proves kinder to you.”
“Yeah. And to you, too, Julia,” Liv murmured curtly.
With that, Liv offered a final nod and turned to brush past Julia, her steps light yet resolute.
Julia filed out after Liv, watching the girl’s eyes, dark and burning with unashamed desire, fall upon Cian Tracey. He stood apart from the common rabble down below, a figure of rugged charm and eccentric authority, his every handsome feature sparkling under one of the Banshee’s chandeliers.
Julia leaned over the railing, watching Liv sweep forward, her gait lithe and hungry, and pull up a chair beside Cian. In a sudden, impulsive movement, she reached out and pressed her lips against the side of Cian’s neck, a gesture both bold and fraught with carnal promise. The kiss was a heady mixture of softness and desperate heat.
“Take me to your place,” she breathed, her voice raw with need.
Cian’s green eyes widened in flattered surprise as he regarded the daring young woman clinging to his arm. His features softened, and a slow, appreciative smile crept across his face as he registered her unashamed pursuit. But even as a spark of desire flickered in his gaze, an uncharacteristic pragmatism tempered his response.
“Ah, my dove,” he began, his tone rich with amusement yet edged with restraint, “you are too bold by half.” He paused, his eyes drifting momentarily over her flushed face, taking in every detail of her unguarded passion. "Not tonight."
Before she could protest, Cian, with a gentle, almost rueful shake of his head, produced a small handkerchief and brushed a stray lip-rouge stain from his neck. “I have my own affairs to attend to this evening,” he murmured, his voice low enough.
At these words, Liv’s eyes flashed indignation and sultry disappointment. With a graceful yet perfunctory gesture, Cian beckoned over a broad-shouldered man, his friend simply known as Jab Johnson.
“Try my friend,” Cian said softly, as if passing on a clandestine charge. “He’s a solid cove.” The invitation, though indirect, was a benediction of sorts—a permission granted by one man to another to indulge in Liv.
The exchange made Julia feel nauseous.
Liv, her pulse quickening and her cheek flushed a deep, resplendent red, regarded Cian with a mixture of lingering defiance and reluctant acceptance. For in that fleeting moment, as the echoes of her bold kiss still lingered in the charged atmosphere, she knew that even in rejection there was a glimmer of validation. Cian’s refusal, though painful, affirmed her own audacity—a confirmation that she had not lost her fire, even if fate compelled her to seek it elsewhere. Thus, with a final, lingering look at Cian, Liv allowed herself to be led toward Jab Johnson.
“Jules, am I dreaming?”
Muggs emerged from the shadowed recess of the bustling room as if summoned by a fierce, unholy longing, his presence thick and heavy. In one swift motion, he closed the space between himself and Julia. His rough, scarred hands seizing her slender waist with a possessive urgency. The air around them seemed to shudder as his arms, as firm and unyielding as iron bands, enveloped her in a heat that rivaled the very blaze of hellfire.
“Matthew?” Julia was able to hiss as her gaze was re-directed from the scene unfolding below to his sinewy arms around her waist.
“How dare you show up looking like that,” he growled low into her ear, his voice rough as gravel yet trembling with barely concealed desire. His mouth, known to spit the worst curses with abandon, now softened as he leaned in, his scent a heady mixture of tobacco, sweat, and cheap whiskey. "My girl's a hussy after all."
Julia felt stripped bare by the fierceness he evoked in her, felt her polished composure melt away in the heat of his embrace. She knew immediately he was well on his way to not remembering the night entirely. She figured Colm Tracey had something to do with it. "Easy, Matthew," she said, her hand sliding to his jaw.
“They should know you’re mine,” he muttered.
“Only because I say so,” she answered, eyes steady. The corner of his mouth twitched; the hold softened.
“Dusters aren’t choir boys,” he warned. “Stay close. I’ll introduce you.”
Chapter 31: Port Na bPúcaí
Summary:
"You're my daughter. Not just in name. You're my blood."
Chapter Text
St. Patrick's Day, 1902
The Banshee Pub, New York City
The night spun like a child’s top. Kate wasn’t stumbling from drink so much as Leah’s too-narrow boots. The girl had insisted she wear damn near everything she had to offer, every fancy little article she’d brought over for Kate to try on. But Kate didn’t feel glamorous. She felt shiny, alright. Like a nauseating, glittering firework, running into things with a loud crash and giving off too much sparkle, meaning to blind rather than entrance. The bar's lacquer threw back a stranger's shine.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” Spot said—again.
Praise skittered off her skin. Across the room Nell Anderson squinted, a brief, cold scowl. Kate shivered despite the press of bodies.
Nell wouldn’t dare confront her here, not with Spot nearby and Tammany men in every corner. Still, the sight of Nell was enough to stir the memory of the brownstone, that prison of locked doors and unheard cries. Kate shoved it down. Tonight was not for that.
But Kate knew Nell didn’t buy that story for a second. That would’ve been easy. And nothing was ever easy when it came to that Randall’s Island witch. Kate learned that from the time she was eight. Yes, Nell knew something. And something was far worse than nothing. But so long as Nell kept that something to herself, Kate would be okay, Julia would be okay. They were safe because Nell voicing whatever that something meant she’d be implicating herself in one of the most heinous acts the upper west side had ever known in the last decade. And the witch cared more about her reputation than anything — that Kate knew that for certain.
Whirling away from the bar, Kate felt a stare fixed on her, hot and heavy enough to prickle her skin. She coughed, shielding her face as though the look itself might smother her. When she turned, Colm Tracey’s green gaze was waiting. It was too like Muggs’, and disturbingly like Jesse’s.
“God,” Kate mumbled to herself, turning away at once and using her peripheral vision to see Colm begin to advance toward the bar. “Please, no,”
She prayed and cursed and called out silently to whatever deity lay silent in the clouds for him to pass her by. She tried giving St. Patrick a shout, since it was his feast day.
Please dear God, don’t say anything about the dress or my face or my hair…I’ll die, I’ll simply die, she thought.
Colm bowed to her, which would've made her laugh had it been any other man. She bobbed a curtsy stiffly.
He laughed. "You've clung to the walls all night," he said, offering his hand. "You look like you're at a funeral."
Kate didn't take it.
Colm ran his tongue over the side of his teeth, a gesture that looked all too familiar on Muggs.
“My boy Matthew tells me you’re living at his old lodging house.” Colm began, not quite staring at Kate so intently anymore. Two fingers were raised to the barkeep. Two whiskeys slid over. “That true, Miss Moore?”
Kate swallowed hard, forcing her body to turn flat against the bar so she could stare out at the dancing, jovial partygoers, anything to focus on other than the mountain of a man beside and ignore the fact that he knew where she lived. She heard the bartender slide the two glasses across the tabletop. Colm nudged one toward her and picked up the other.
“Mary O’Connell still runs that house?” Colm went on, as if he hadn’t needed her confirmation. As if he’d stated a fact. “She was a real pistol, if I recall correctly. Tough as turf. Reminds me of my own ma. Cut from the same cloth, those two.”
Kate scrunched her eyebrows, balking at the way Colm was not only continuing an impromptu conversation, with her of all people, without a formal introduction, but talking about personal matters. Kate hadn’t exchanged more than three words with Colm, and that had only been on the way in when he took her coat and hat to lock them away in the coat room.
Had he done that for all the guests?
“She does.” Kate replied numbly, watching May Mahoney spin madly under Lion’s arm, only to be thrown into No Name who howled with laughter and spun her again, dipping her low, swinging her around, and dancing her into Tide’s arms. May shrieked and threw her head back, smile wide and youthful as she caught her breath.
The corner’s of Kate’s own mouth tugged into a faint grin, just for a moment.
“And Thomas Conlon,” Colm went on. “Spot. I know the kids still keep newsboy nicknames for life. Matthew’s called Muggs by some, who the hell knows why.”
“Don’t blunt yourself on my account, Mr. Tracey,” Kate found herself saying before she could stop the words. She continued staring off, watching Genevieve Marquette dance with her son, him kissing the top of her head, and her muttering something in French that made them both laugh.
“Colm, if you like,” he offered, pausing before taking a sip from his glass. “You’re Spot’s girl. That makes you near family.”
“Does Julia call you Colm?”
Colm laughed into his glass. “If she'd like," he said, tossing back another gulp of whiskey. "Could I call you Katherine? Or maybe Kate?"
"Katherine's fine," she replied stiffly, barely flinching as he reached over to nudge her drink closer to her.
"Right, Katherine it is, then." Colm gave something of a smile and stared down at his now empty whiskey glass. "Pretty name. I have an aunt Caitríona. My mother's older sister. We called her Cait growing up." Colm cleared his throat, stealing another sip of whiskey. "Auntie Cait. She was a strict woman who used to call me sinful and lazy. But she always helped Ma take care of my brother and me. Gave us food and a place to sleep when my father lost his job."
Kate tilted her head, angling to look at him ever so slightly with curious green eyes.
"Will you sit with me a moment?" Colm tipped his chin toward a back table.
A round of applause broke out on the dance floor for the musicians as they finished a whirling reel and struck up with a slow air on fiddles and uilleann pipes. A beautiful woman in May and Genevieve's circle took the small platform before the musicians and began singing Port Na bPúcaí.
"I'm sorry?" Kate asked, startled by the question and eeriness of the emotional rendition.
"Come sit with me."
"What for?"
"It's best if I tell you over there where it's quiet. Where no one will interrupt us."
"No, thank you," Kate said, catching Spot's gaze from a table at the other end where he sat with Jack Kelly, Sarah and David Jacobs, Racetrack Higgins, Grim Krause, Tide McGurk, Ro Moretti, and a number of others.
Henry Krause sat beside Nick Moretti on the floor at Grim's feet, watching the singer with heavy eyes. Grim leaned over and whispered something to Ro, who smiled and nodded fondly. Spot gestured for Kate to join him where he sat, nodding to an empty chair between him and Sarah that had obviously been saved for her. Kate just stared at it and then at him, frozen in place. Spot furrowed his brows, shaking his head in confusion and then sitting up rigidly.
Colm's hand settled on her shoulder. Kate stiffened, the hairs at her nape rising as if to shake him off. “It’s real important,” he said. “It’s about your mother.”
"My mother?" Kate echoed uncertainly, craning her neck back to Spot who had now directed Jack's attention to what was going on. "What about her?"
"I know her. Well, I knew her. A long time ago now." The grip wasn't tightening, but it stayed firm and measured. "She wrote me once."
She began counting her breaths. She turned away from Spot, who was starting to get up from his chair, only to accidentally bump into Sophie who was carrying a tray of drinks. The commotion made Kate flinch and snap her shoulder of Colm's grip. "My mother doesn't write to strange men. She's married."
"She wasn't always married."
Kate glanced back toward the others at the table. Spot half-rose, hand braced on the table as though to come for her. Then Sophie stumbled with a tray of drinks, and Tide caught her, blocking his path. He kept his eyes fixed on Kate even as he bent to help.
The singer's voice behind her lifted into a chilling, loathsome wail as she continued the melody.
Kate turned to him slowly. "Nor were you." She twisted around him, leaving the glass he offered her behind.
He drank. "Come sit with me, Katerina Russo," he said again, louder this time, like an order he was barking to one of his men. "Right now."
Kate's face paled, and she brushed the curls that spilled from her updo in an uncompromising way. "What did you call me?"
"I think you heard me plainly."
"I told you to call me Katherine or Miss Moore. Moore, that's my father's name. My name."
"No, it ain't." Colm muttered in disgust, wiping his mouth after another drink.
"What?"
"Moore. Edward Moore is a wretched little milksop. I've got plenty of names for him, but your father ain't one. Just look in the mirror. Ain't nothing about you is Moore's. Your hair, your nose, your mannerisms, your eyes...how can you have such eyes, Katherine?" He stopped himself, cocking his head in a meaningful way as he stared at her. Really stared. "My eyes."
That gave her goosebumps. She took another two steps back. "What are you saying? That Edward Moore ain't my father, so you must be?" She asked with a stifled laugh, eyes narrowing before going wide. Her stomach dropped as Colm's expression never changed. Everything and everyone else seemed to slowly fade a million miles away. "Oh God, that's what you're saying," she said quietly. "Isn't it?"
She didn't wait for him to answer. Kate nudged past a few patrons in her way and made her way away from Colm, away from Spot and the others, and out the side door into the cool, night air. She was without her coat and hat. She shivered but was too anxious to feel the sting of the wind. Her heart was pounding, her stomach sinking.
She found herself in the back courtyard of the pub, where the noise dulled to an unintelligible murmur against the brick and rushing water of the nearby river. The windows behind her glowed golden on all floors, casting silhouettes of party-goers and musicians. She heard the applause and whistles of the crowd once again as the haunting song ended and the band and singer struck up with The Wind That Shakes the Barley.
Five minutes later, the door creaked open behind her, and she wrapped her arms around herself, feeling cold air slip through the seams of the borrowed evening gown.
"Cold as a witch's teat out here," Colm muttered from behind her, his breath a white puff of smoke as he pulled his coat tighter.
Kate's eyes stayed fixed on the cold stretch of river, glittering faintly under the moonlight. "It's not possible," she said firmly, turning slightly toward him. "It can't be you. My father is Edward Moore." But her heart wasn't quite in those words. She sounded as though she were trying to convince herself of the fact.
"Seventeen winters, Katherine. I counted them," Colm said. He shrugged off his coat and draping it around Kate's stiff shoulders. It smelled of pipe smoke, sweat, and cheap cologne. He sighed, shoving his hands deep into his "Your mother told me herself when she quickened. I ended it when my wife came home with Colleen. Then Effie came back, needed credit. I failed her. The next time, she was raging and holding you. Said you had my eyes and she’d rather make an orphan than give you to me.”
Kate shook her head and turned back to the river. A raggedly-dressed girl with no shoes stood by the water's edge feeding the pigeons. She watched the girl reach into a bucket and gently throw a handful of seeds at her feet, attracting the flock.
"You owe me a lot more than that," came Kate's biting response.
"Effie never told me anything straight. It was always a game or a story with her. And I let her." He paused.
"My mother...Effie was never...she'd never have anything to do with you."
"She did. Once. A good while before you came along."
Kate shook her head. "You're drunk. This isn't true."
"I met her at a low point in both of our lives," Colm said quietly, his voice low and husky from the wind and whiskey. "She was young but clever. And pretty. Told me she was studying at a women's college, and I—" He stopped himself and shook his head. "Doesn't matter much now, does it."
Kate watched the pigeons take off behind the barefoot girl with a rustle of wings and shrieks. Her eyes moved back to him. She felt her chest tighten, and suddenly air was hard to come by. "So you left me." Her voice cracked, and she immediately wanted to hit herself.
"I tried to do right. I offered my parents to raise you. School, Mass, bread. She slammed the door. I watched from corners after that and hated what I'd been."
Keeping her arms wrapped around herself under the draped, large greatcoat, Kate angled herself toward him, her cheeks windswept and rosy. "But how come you're telling me all this now? Tonight?" she asked bitterly. "What changed?"
Colm was quite for a long, drawn-out moment. He looked weary for the first time to Kate, not exuding his usual boldness and confidence. "Jesse kept a journal. Julia found it. Matthew knows. When I saw you tonight, alone...I couldn't pretend anymore.
Kate tried to swallow, but her throat was dry as sand.
He faced her. "You're my daughter."
Kate shook her head doubtfully. "Why am I last to know?"
"You're not. Colleen doesn't know."
That sent her dark curls flying as her head whipped up. "What?" Kate hissed, rustling the large coat around her. "How could you not tell her? Or your boys? How could you be alright with this? How could your wife be alright with this? How could you go on living so close to me and my mother for all these years? You lived across the river and said nothing?"
Colm shifted on his boots. "Valeriya didn't know, not immediately," he said, trying to keep his voice down. "She didn't know until you were nearly a toddler, and by then...we talked about it."
"You talked about what, exactly? How you were gonna tell your three kids that you were going to play make-believe with your other daughter across the bridge?" She began breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling, feeling like the inside of her head was spinning madly in a dizzying way.
"There was no clean way. In law, Moore was your father. My wife learned, and we…found a way to go on."
"So you just left me to rot with my mother who despised me and and a man who long-suspected I wasn't his child?" Her voice rose an octave, the panic creeping in. "You just didn't care? Did your wife care?"
"She did," Colm answered without hesitation. "You may not believe me, but it's true. It didn't happen overnight, but she accepted you."
Kate almost laughed. "Accepted me as what? A secret?"
Colm stepped closer, lowering his head. "Listen, I know you're feeling shocked and furious and cheated. Believe me, Valeriya did, too. And there's times when I believe she still does, but she eventually had to move on."
Kate sniffled and glared up at Colm. "How?" she asked sharply.
Colm cringed. "Every family hides something. If I were a better man...God, if I were, then I would've done it all differently. But I can't go back."
Kate exhaled a ragged breath, dropping her gaze, shoulders slumping. "You'd do things differently," she muttered. "You wouldn't have had me?"
"No." The regret was plain. "I'd have done right by you."
But she was already looking away, eyes brimming with hot tears.
Colm looked over his shoulder and then took Kate by the arm again. "Come on, please. Let's go back inside and talk. Just you and me. I've got all night."
She flinched away like he'd hit her. "No, you don't touch me," she snapped, cutting off whatever he was about to say next. "I don't want to talk to you." She stripped off the coat and shoved it back. "I don't want your pity. I don't want a damn thing from you."
"Katherine, this changes nothing—"
"No, Colm. This changes everything!" She shouted, her voice raw, making Colm step back and stifle a wince.
He gathered himself quickly, jaw clenching. He stared off and sighed in resignation. "Darling, please. You're my little girl," he said quietly. He tried for her arm again but she shoved him away this time. "You'll always be my little girl."
Kate's laugh snapped white in the cold. "That's a joke, right?"
She shouldered past him and stormed off toward the door of the pub without so much as a glance over her shoulder, leaving behind the dangerous, corrupt man she now knew as her father—silent, crestfallen, and alone.
Chapter 32: Wild Nights
Chapter Text
St. Patrick's Day, 1902
New York City
The smell of browned onions and herbs still lingered in the cramped little parlor, remnants of supper Muggs had made. Stew thick enough to stand a spoon in, with bread that turned out surprisingly perfect. Julia stacked the dinner dishes with practiced precision, the porcelain clinking gently as she set them in the basin.
From the bathroom came the scrape of a straight razor, steady as a metronome, and Muggs' muffled voice. "Come out with me tonight, Jules. I want my girl there."
Julia snorted, drying her hands on a tea towel. "Your girl doesn't feel like seeing half the city drunk and the other half throwing punches. Not to mention whatever unsavory flavor of gangster that is waiting to prey on fools out for a good time."
"Don't worry your silk stockings." His voice rose, rough with amusement. "I'll keep the wolves off."
"Wonderful," she muttered, stacking the last plate. "That inspires confidence."
Muggs came out bare-armed in his undershirt, cheeks freshly shaven and raw. He leaned against the doorframe, razor still in hand, smirking. “My old man used to knock around with the last of the Whyos. Now I reckon it's the Hudson Dusters. They liked him ‘cause he brought burny ‘round before the fights. Had me take it too, so I’d look rabid in the ring. Eyes wild, fists never stoppin’.” He mimed a quick one-two with his free hand. “Crowd ate it up.”
"Oh, Matthew," Julia sighed, but before she could harp on just how twisted that really was, she tightened her lips and altered course. “So I’ll be surrounded by men doped up on cocaine. Even better.”
“Not doped up,” Muggs corrected, tossing the razor onto the dresser. “Hopped up. And half of ‘em are mates of mine now. Besides, our lot’ll be there. Alexei, Billy Kennedy, Cohen, Spot, your Kate. What's going on between the two of you anyway?”
Julia stopped with her back to him, hands gripping the basin edge. “Don’t start,” she said softly. “Every time I try to be there for her, it ends in a row. She hates me fussing. I don’t know how to…not fuss.”
"Women," he muttered and stepped closer, wiping his hands on a rag. “Listen, Jules. You don’t gotta be her nurse. She’s got half a dozen people hoverin’ already. Me included. You just bein’ in the room’s enough. Don’t matter if she spits at you. She’ll know you showed up.”
Julia turned, lips pressed thin, eyes searching his. “You make it sound so simple.”
He grinned wolfishly. “That’s ‘cause it is. You think too much.” He hooked a finger under her chin, leaning down. She pulled back just enough to sigh.
“You reek of bay rum,” she said.
“Better than onions,” he shot back, pulling on a crisp shirt. He left it unbuttoned while she fetched his tie. "Tie this for me, will ya?"
Julia climbed onto her vanity stool to reach him properly, the two of them eye to eye as she looped the silk around his neck. He stood perfectly still, watching her with a half-smile, letting her fuss with the knot.
“You’re sure you won’t come?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she said, tugging the tie tighter than necessary. “Besides, what have I to celebrate? I’m not even Irish.”
Muggs barked a laugh. “Neither am I.”
Julia froze mid-knot. “What do you mean, you’re not? Your last name is Tracey.”
“Right, that's the point. Tracey’s just the polished English version. When my granddad came over, he dropped the old version. It was Ó Treasaigh.”
She blinked, uncertain. "Say that again?”
“Tre-shee. Or Tre-sigh. Depends who you ask. I never was sure.” He shrugged. “Didn’t much matter. Grandad wanted to sound American. Which I am, thank you."
Julia laughed despite herself. “And here you are, denying it, with your green eyes and your bloody boxing temper.”
“Doesn’t mean I care for the feast day.” He smirked, sliding his hands along her waist while she fussed with the knot. “I care for gettin’ you out and watchin’ you have a good time.”
Julia smacked his shoulder lightly. “I'm fine. I'd rather have a quiet night in."
"You're nervous." He watched her look away. "Maybe I should wear you out before we go. Then you won't be so wound up."
Muggs leaned down, lips brushing against the corner of her mouth. For a moment, Julia thought she might let him, but the weight of everything pressed against her chest. She turned her face aside, slipped from his reach, and walked into the parlor again, fingers running along the back of a chair just to keep her hands busy.
“Jules,” he said, amused at first, then a little sharper. He followed, quick on his feet. “You tryin’ to make me lose my mind? Been a week.”
She froze by the mantel, her back to him. “I can’t, Matthew. Not like this. Not with things the way they are.”
“What way they are?” His voice softened, the fight slipping out of him. He caught her by the arm, turning her gently to face him.
Julia’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Every time I look at Kate, I feel sick with guilt. Don’t you understand? She’s going to find out about Colm. About who he really is. And it will ruin her. Break her into pieces. And me? I’ll be standing there, useless. Worse than useless, because I’ve done nothing but make her hate me every time I try to help.”
Her voice cracked. She pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head. “I disgust myself.”
She pulled away and crossed the room in a rush, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, springs groaning. She stared at the floorboards as though they alone might steady her.
Muggs stood in the doorway a beat, chewing his lip, then came over and sat beside her, elbows on his knees. For a long moment, he said nothing. The clock ticked, the pipes clanged faintly in the walls.
“Alright.” His voice came out low, rasped, like gravel in his throat. “When I was fifteen,” He stopped, dragging a hand down his face. “I did somethin’ bad to Alexei.”
Julia’s head snapped up, startled.
“We’d been scrapin’ all night over some stupid misunderstanding. Fightin’, drinkin’, jawin’ each other on. I lost it. Put him down hard. Left him unconscious. Left him thinkin’ I hated him.” Muggs swallowed, jaw working. “Truth is, I hated myself. Still do, when I think about it. He forgave me, but I never forgot. Couldn't.”
Silence hung heavy between them. Julia searched his face, the hard planes, the cut of his mouth, and saw the boy in him for a moment, not the fighter. Just Matthew, fifteen and furious at the world.
Her voice was small. “Do you ever…hate being so known? The way people talk about you, the way they want you for dirty work?”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Doesn’t matter if I hate it or not. It’s life. I’m their muscle. And I’ll end up where they always said I would — prison. Snyder liked to say it straight to your face, so it’d stick.”
“You’re not like them,” Julia insisted, turning on the bed to face him fully, her hand finding his sleeve. “You’re not. You’re different.”
He shook his head, staring at his boots. “Jesse thought so too. Look where he is now.”
The words cut deep, and Julia flinched. Still, she pressed on. “Kate isn’t like Alexei. She hasn’t done me any wrong. She doesn’t deserve the way I’ve hovered and smothered her. I have to make it right somehow.”
“Then say sorry and get on with life,” Muggs said bluntly, lifting his eyes to hers. “Tell her you’ve been actin’ like Grim. Tryin’ to parent her when she don’t want it. Say it plain. She’ll chew you out, maybe. But she’ll hear you.”
Julia pressed her palms against her eyes, shaking her head. “What if it isn’t enough?”
He leaned in then and kissed her, rough and quick, shutting down her words. She gasped against his mouth, startled, but he pulled back just far enough to speak.
“You’re incredible, Jules. You don’t even see it. You’re too bloody hard on yourself. Kate’s lucky to have you, whether she knows it now or not.”
He kissed her again, softer this time, his thumb brushing her jaw. When he pulled away, his eyes burned into hers. “Come with me tonight. Just stand in the room with me. That’s all I want.”
Julia wanted to say yes. God, she wanted to. But the knot in her chest held. She shook her head, voice catching. “It just feels wrong. Maybe you should take someone else. Leah Kessler would adore being on your arm.”
Muggs blinked, then barked a sharp laugh. “Leah? Jesus Christ, you’re jokin’.”
Julia shrugged faintly, forcing a brittle smile. “She’s young, she’ll lap up the attention from the boys, and you won’t have to drag me about like a dead weight.”
“I don’t want Leah,” he said flatly, incredulous. “I want you. My girl. Nobody else.”
Julia’s lips trembled, and despite herself she smiled a small, tired thing. She leaned into him just enough to rest her forehead against his chest. “Go on, Matthew. You’ll have your fun. I’ll mind the quiet.”
At the bedroom door, Muggs caught her wrist, tugging her in just enough for another kiss. This one lingered, not hurried, not rough, but deep enough that Julia’s back pressed into the doorframe for balance. His stubble grazed her cheek where he’d missed a spot with the razor.
When he drew back, her hands were already reaching for the knot of his tie, fussing, straightening, re-tightening though she’d only just finished it. He let her, eyes soft, smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“There,” she murmured, smoothing it flat. She lifted his heavy coat from the chair and held it open. He bent into it, brushing her knuckles with his jaw as he shrugged it on.
He leaned close, voice dropping low enough that the words buzzed hot against her ear. “Won’t stay out too late. Promise to be quiet when I come back."
Julia shoved at his chest, half-laughing, half-teary. “You stay out as long as you like. You're a free man tonight.”
“Free and spoken for,” he shot back, quick as a whip.
She rolled her eyes but the heat in her throat betrayed her. “Keep an eye on Kate for me,” she said at last, her voice tight. “And don’t let too many pretty girls bat their lashes at you.”
“Pretty girls?” He arched a brow, mock-innocent. “That what they call Duster molls these days?”
“Lord help me.” Julia plucked her perfume bottle from the vanity, pulled the stopper, and with a flick of her wrist misted one sharp spray across his chest. Muggs coughed, then looked horrified at the flowery scent now sticking to his shirt.
“So they all know you’re mine,” she said firmly, slipping the stopper back in with a click.
He caught her hand before she could turn away, kissed her hand like some half-feral knight, then let her go.
And with that, Muggs Tracey was gone into the night.
The river’s breath came in cold and briny, scouring the narrow blocks east of Catherine Street. Muggs cut down toward Water Street with his collar up, shouldering through a knot of longshoremen arguing in three languages about a busted hand truck. Gas jets coughed along the facades, turning the slick cobbles into a chain of weak, greenish moons. A rag picker’s bell clanged, a pushcart squealed, and coal smoke drifted like a low ceiling over the East River slips.
Billy “Rails” Kennedy was already planted under the crooked stoop at Cohen’s building, hands deep in the pockets of a beat-up coat, hat brim shadowing his eyes. He looked like a fence post somebody had hammered into the sidewalk and forgot.
“You’re late,” he said, but the words had the flat humor of a man who’d been ready thirty minutes and made his peace with it.
“Blame your roommate,” Muggs said. “He’s the one makin’ a nice long opera out of it, ain't he?"
“Can hear it from the curb.” Kennedy tilted his chin. The tenement’s front door was cracked and leaking voices, one low and furious, one higher and tight as wire.
They climbed the narrow stairs into a hallway that smelled of soap, boiled potatoes, and old cigars. On the second landing a door stood cracked ajar. Inside, lamplight turned the shabby wallpaper to the color of weak tea. On the table, a bowl of pickled tomatoes, half a loaf of black bread, a chipped bottle that once held schnapps and now held some kind of mutt liquor. On the wall, a cheap lithograph of two prizefighters frozen with their fists up, the paper browned at the edges.
Al Cohen stood in his shirtsleeves with his back to the window, big through the chest, sleeves rolled to show forearms corded like hawser rope. Thick neck, a bulldog jaw that had been broken once and never quite set straight. He held a cigar pinched between two fingers but he wasn’t smoking. He was pointing with it, stabbing the air between each word. The old country rasp came through his Lower East Side bark.
“Du host gehert? You heard me?” Al snarled. “You think I’m a schmuck? A nebekh, ah? They're tellin’ me they see you down on Allen Street, huh? With that—” He groped for something that wouldn’t explode into a full slur and settled for “—that feygele fella. You make a show outta it now? In the open? In front of Monk’s people? You wanna put a knife in my kishkes, that’s what.”
Aaron Cohen, with his jacket off, vest open, handsome face pale but unbowed, slouched in the chair like he were only half-listening. His eyes flicked to Muggs and Kennedy at the door, then back to his father with that deadpan that made men think twice about trying him. “Real nice, Pop,” he said lightly. “You got the whole block listening, nu. Why don’t you throw the window up and sell tickets.”
Al’s head swung toward the door. For a beat, the bulldog softened. He jabbed the cigar at Muggs. “Traceleh,” he said, old affection sneaking past the scowl. “Look at you. Same eyes as the old man, what can I say.” Then the face hardened again. “You, you come in, sit. You know what it is to listen when a father’s talkin’ sense.”
Muggs tipped his hat without moving further in. “Evenin’, Mr. Cohen.”
Kennedy hovered, uneasy as a colt. “We, uh, came to fetch your son to the Banshee, sir.”
Al snorted. “Saint Paddy’s—ah, shoyn, there’ll be plenty idiots without you three. Sit for a minute. I’m not finished, Aaron.”
Cohen didn’t sit. He kept his arms folded, chin up, and shot Muggs a sideways, knowing glare. “You finished two times already,” he said. “And you’re talkin’ nonsense. The fella you’re mad about—he’s a friend. Because I got friends you don’t like don’t make me a scandal. You wanna talk scandal, Pop? We can talk about how many boys you fed ‘burny’ before fights so they’d look crazy enough to sell tickets.”
Al flicked ash at the stove as if he could set that accusation smoldering instead of answering it. “Don’t get clever. You think I don’t know fights? I was steerin’ bouts before you had teeth. Decent money in two kids who go like devils and don’t fall down. This is business.”
“Was business when you handed me a paper twist and told me to rub it into my gums till my mouth went numb,” Cohen shot back. “Was business when you pushed me in that ring at Folly and told me not to disgrace you in front of Monk’s men.” He jerked a thumb toward Muggs. “Same as you and Colm Tracey with him. Don’t pretend you’re different.”
Al looked past his son to Muggs, and for a second the scowl slid into something more complicated. “Your old man,” he said to Muggs, “I’ll tell you plain. He and me and that Dom Conlon, we understood somethin’ about this neighborhood. Boys need bread. The crowd needs a show. You give ‘em a show and the bread follows. That’s the whole arithmetic.”
“Arithmetic doesn’t have a conscience,” Cohen said. “You fed kids burny so they looked like animals. Then you called it fair.”
Al’s jaw worked. He set the cigar in a saucer, fingers steady in the way of a man who’d taught his hands to be steady when his head ran hot. “You want conscience lecture from me, ah? From me? I came from Grodno with nothing, kid. You hear me? The Tsar’s men took everything but my family. We get here, we sleep six to a bed in a cold-water flat. Someone needs a man who can make the numbers talk, I make ‘em sing. You think I ain't care if some louts on Allen Street whisper that my boy’s got friends I don’t understand?” He jabbed a thumb in his chest. “I care because talk like that is dangerous. For you. For me."
Silence chewed the edges of the room. The elevated roared past outside, rattling the window glass in its putty. On the table, the tomatoes sweated in their brine.
Muggs shifted his weight, the old mark of a fighter recognizing the round was going too long. “We ain’t lookin’ to make trouble,” he said evenly. “Just to go drink a few and dance. The Banshee’s thick with Dusters tonight. Your name carries there. Nobody’s lookin’ to cross it.”
Al pointed at him, pleased. “You see? Tracey understands the air of a room.”
Kennedy muttered, “He understands whiskey,” but nobody took the bait.
Al’s glance snagged on the cheap lithograph of the prizefighters, then wandered to the shelf above the stove: a small tin of matches, a small framed daguerreotype of a young woman with a head scarf and slantwise smile in her best dress. Cohen's dead mother. Al picked up the picture and set it back down as if it was heavier than it looked.
“You know,” Al said to Muggs, softer, “your ma, Valeriya, she could make the whole corner stop talkin’ just to listen. Even as a girl. Had that way. We were kids together, Hester Street. I remember she’d strike a match with her thumb and you’d think you saw a miracle. Pah!” He shook his head. “Then your old man shows, with that jaw and that grin, eh? And that left like a horse kick. And boom-boom-boom—she starts orbitin’ Colm Tracey like he was the moon. Boychik, I'd watch him act too good for her.” He grinned without humor. “I finally had to tell him she liked him so he'd stop chasin' skirts in front of her.”
Muggs’ mouth twitched. “Sounds right,” he said, tone dry as tinder.
Al laughed from the belly, then broke it off. “So,” he said briskly, shifting back into the armor of business. “News from uptown, your old man’s got himself a new dame. Soft, pretty, sharp tongue like a razor.” He arched an eyebrow at Muggs. “You know about this?”
Muggs kept his face like a card against a palm. “I don’t ask after his women,” he said.
“Good,” Al said. “Don’t. Better that way.” He rolled his shoulders, anger guttering into a hard, practical glow. Al leaned forward, cigar back between his teeth, voice dropping to a growl. “Enough of this narishkeit, Aaron. I hear whispers, I hear things I don’t like. Don’t think I’m blind. A man your age oughta be talkin’ about wages, about a wife, about puttin’ money by for a future, not runnin’ round with…with confusion.” His eyes cut sharp, and though he never said the words, the weight of them pressed the room tight.
Cohen’s jaw worked, but he didn’t answer.
“You listen now,” Al went on, stabbing the air with two thick fingers. “Next month, I’ll set you with a girl. A good girl. Not one of these Bowery molls with paint on her face and hands in every other pocket. A nice girl, from a decent family, ready to make you a father. If you were smart, you'll go, you’ll say yes, slip a nice ring on her finger, give her your name, and you wouldn't regret it. Please God, you live to be a hundred. That’s how a man lives. None of this foolishness, you hear me?"
"I can't promise anything yet, Pop."
Al puffed on the cigar. "Why?"
"We'll talk later."
"You ain't getting any younger."
Kennedy studied the floorboards. Muggs kept his face stony, though his eyes flicked once toward Aaron, gauging how he’d take it.
Cohen only shrugged into his coat. “Fine,” he said, flat as a paving stone. “Whatever makes you sleep.”
Al’s face hardened, the cigar trembling once between his teeth before he clamped it tight. “You try me on this, you’ll be sorry.”
Al jabbed the cigar into the ashtray, the stench of it burning bitter in the cramped flat. He looked ready to keep on, voice rising, but Kennedy shifted in his chair, leaning forward like he was about to spring.
“Mr. Cohen,” Kennedy said, laying on the polite tone thick, “we was just about to step out. Parties, you know. Music, whiskey, the whole bit. If we don’t catch the lads now, they’ll drink the place dry before we set foot in the door.”
Muggs, half-sitting on the arm of a chair, threw in, “Yeah, and you wouldn’t want us drinkin’ cheap lager all night, would ya? We’ll be pissin’ stale beer come morning.”
Al grunted, eyeing them both. “You think I don’t know what goes on at those dives? Every last one of you’ll come back half-dead. Don't forget to act your age. You”—he jabbed a finger at Muggs, “your old man used to stagger in the same way. And you”—his eyes cut back to Aaron, “don’t think you’re too clever for me. I’ll find that girl, and you’ll meet her.”
“Sure, Pop,” Cohen muttered again, jaw tight. He reached for his coat. “Now if you don’t mind, we’re late.”
Al stood, straightened his vest, and for a second, Muggs thought he might actually plant himself in the doorway just to make a point. Cohen’s hand twitched at his side like he was bracing for it.
Then Kennedy piped up, grinning like he was in on some private joke. “Say, Mr. Cohen, you heard about the horses runnin’ this spring up at Sheepshead Bay? I got a fella, Higgins, who says one’s gonna take the Derby. Maybe you and me go put a stake on it next week, eh?”
Al’s sharp eyes softened just enough. Horses. Gambling. That was a language he spoke. He smirked, stuck the cigar back in his mouth. “Maybe, maybe. Depends if your fella’s got a brain in his head. Most of ‘em don’t.”
Kennedy shrugged, easy as water. “Then I’ll be sure to bring him ‘round, you can size him up yourself.”
That was enough to get Al moving toward the door, grumbling but no longer blocking the way. He clapped Muggs once on the shoulder, hard enough to jar his bones. “Tell your old man I said hello. Tell him his new woman’s a hell of a looker.” He barked a laugh. “Don’t know how he does it.”
Muggs stiffened but kept his mouth shut. He had no clue who Al meant, and didn’t much want to.
Al’s boots thudded down the stairs, the door slamming behind him like a gunshot. The three of them exhaled in near-unison.
“Christ almighty,” Kennedy muttered, raking a hand through his hair.
Cohen lit a cigarette, hands only a little unsteady. “That’s Al. Always a treat.” He blew smoke toward the ceiling, then turned a crooked grin on Muggs. “So tell me, how come Julia ain’t with you? You scare her off already?”
Muggs’ jaw twitched. “She’s got her reasons.”
“Mm-hm.” Cohen took a long drag. “Her reasons got a nice ass and a mouth full of excuses, I bet.”
Kennedy cut in before Muggs could reply. “Leave it. We got whiskey waitin’, girls dancin’, music playin’. Don’t sour the night before it starts.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cohen muttered, stubbing his smoke out in a chipped saucer. “Let’s get the hell outta here before Pop changes his mind and comes back to beat a dead horse.”
The three pulled their coats tight against the March wind as they spilled onto the street, the noise of the city rolling up to meet them, street fiddlers scraping out reels, boys shouting for evening papers, a handful of drunks already weaving their way toward Water Street.
They hit the West Side like a gust, coats up against the March damp, boots loud on the plank sidewalks, the river wind carrying coal smoke and boiled beef from tenement kitchens. A grip car clanged down Ninth, boys with green ribbons at their hats whooping after it. The nearer they came to Tenth and the long low glow of the Banshee, the thicker the sound, fiddle and pipes and the thump of a bodhrán, voices risen to the same tune Muggs heard every March and swear he'd never heard before.
Inside was heat and steam and shoulder-on-shoulder. The Banshee’s mahogany bar ran like a riverbank, and behind it, glass and bottle shone, and above it, chalked prices smeared by a hundred greasy fingers: porter 5¢, whiskey 10¢, stout 5¢, corned beef & cabbage 10¢. Flags drooped from beams. The stuffed eagle over the rear nook looked ready to molt.
Women eyed them the moment the door breathed them in. A pair of Duster girls in shawls and dark skirts slid toward them as if on rails, smiles already up. One, freckled and fox-bright, lifted her chin at Muggs. “Evenin’, Tracey. Where’s your pretty wifey Liv keepin’ herself?”
“She ain’t my wife,” Muggs said, but his mouth kicked sideways. Julia’s perfume, a quick spray of her rose-amber, hung light over the sweat and smoke, and the freckled girl’s eyes narrowed, amused.
“Well, someone sent you out marked,” the other girl said, tapping the air near his lapel. "That's too bad.”
Cohen hoisted two fingers to the bar, slid a dime, and three whiskies skated toward them. Kennedy spun a coin on the counter and caught it, already in a mood. “To a night of acting our age,” he said, and they drank.
“Look who’s late,” Tide called from the big table near the stove, rising with that lazy-crocodile grin. Grim sat there with his long legs bracketing a crate on the floor. No Name was sprawled like a cat, Lion in shirtsleeves with a pipe clenched and a blackeye, Cards slouched in a chair with the rear legs flirting with gravity, Shakespeare looking resigned to it, and Marquette lean and pale, Camille on his lap with her champagne and a gaze that could skin a man and leave him smiling.
Doc had the corner by the pillar, clean collar and sober eyes, a glass of seltzer sweating in his hand. Marianna perched beside him with a stout she wasn’t finishing, tapping the rim with a fingernail. “He insisted on buying it,” she said to Cohen as if to make excuse for the glass. “I told him I could as well drink water.”
“Doc drinking?” Cohen said, eyes going mock-wide.
“It’s bubbles,” Doc said dryly. “Try not to faint.”
“Alexei?” No Name said, pushing a chair with his boot as the three came up. “He ain't with you?”
“Busy,” Muggs said, setting his hat to the peg, hair already damp at the temples from the snow. “Busy celebratin’. Him and Elena. Proposed like a gentleman, apparently.”
That bought him a nice round of hoots and cheers.
“About time,” Lion said. “She’s been bossing him for years. May as well formalize.”
“They been at it all day since,” Muggs added, hoisting himself onto the table edge. “I had to clear out lest I expire of romance.”
“Blessed be,” Marianna said, crossing herself with the faintest smile. “And may God give their neighbors sleep.”
Grim’s blue eyes flicked past Muggs’ shoulder to check the door. “Spot with ya?”
Muggs’ jaw went tight. “He ain’t here?” He looked over the room in a sweep out of habit, hunting a particular cap, a pair of sharp blue eyes, that casual pout he could detect across Mulberry.
Shakespeare shook his head. “He’ll come. He never misses a chance to complain about something.”
“He’d better,” Muggs said, then to Tide, low enough, “He leave Katherine standin’?”
Tide let a breath through his teeth. “He’ll turn up.”
Before Muggs could answer, a small weight slammed into his middle. Colleen, hair up with pretty pins and cheeks wild pink, had sprinted out of the crowd to him. He caught her under the arms and slung her off the floor with a practiced sweep, made a full turn, and set her easy as a parcel on the plank.
“You look ugly,” he told her, which made her beam like sunrise. “Who dressed you, a blind seamstress?”
“I did,” she said, hands on hips. “You’re late.”
“You're tipsy.” He thumbed her nose, then glanced past her, and the grin crooked into something knife-fine. Colm Tracey, tall as a door and twice as sure of himself, had turned from the corner of the bar. Their eyes ticked.
The chatter by the stove fell a half-beat shy of silence, just enough for a man to notice, not enough to make a scene. Colm raised his glass once, not quite a salute, then tipped it back. When he set it down, he was already looking elsewhere, easy as if the room were a map he’d drawn.
Cohen leaned in to Muggs’ shoulder. “You talk to him yet?”
Muggs didn’t look away from Colm. “Not yet.”
“You gonna?”
“Later.” He blinked and the spell broke. “Any of you seen Katherine?”
A chair scraped. Kate had been at the far end of the bar a minute before, taking up space like a girl trying not to. Now she was in motion, quick through the crush, that dress like a dangerous idea, Leah’s borrowed corset making her all line and chest and breath. She reached them stiffer than she meant to be, eyes bright in a way that wasn’t only drink.
“Muggs,” she said, and the name softened her mouth for a heartbeat.
He studied her, not the dress, but the eyes, the pulse at her throat, the way her left hand had trouble deciding where to be. “Where’s your fellow?”
“Reading to Henry,” she said too briskly, then winced at her own tone. “He's not coming.”
“The hell he ain't,” Muggs said. “Else I’m goin’ back over the bridge to fetch him by the neck.”
She snorted despite herself. “After you drink half the bar first.”
“Quarter,” he said solemnly. “I’m cuttin’ down, little cat."
Leah slid in like a stage cue, hair half-up, eyes devoutly wicked. “We were just deciding which of you is going to teach me to schottische,” she announced, filching Kennedy’s whiskey and taking a prim sip that fooled no one. “Mister Kennedy, you promised me a whirl.”
“I promised nothin’, darlin',” he said in his twang, grinning, “but I’ll ruin your shoes if you insist."
The Bowery molls and Duster lasses came back with two more in tow, one with a flower pinned to her bodice, another with a blue ribbon at her throat. They laid hands where hands could be laid in a crowd and not get slapped for it, on an elbow, sleeve, the back of a hand in talk. “Evenin’, Aaron,” one cooed at Cohen. “Tell me later which of them songs you like. I’ll have ‘em play it twice.” Her fingers made a brief treaty with his cuff and were gone.
“Go pester someone rich,” Cohen said amiably, and she laughed and went.
“Look,” Cards said from his recline, head tipping toward the back, “there’s the old man.”
Liam Tracey had an angle by the end of the bar that seemed held for him whether anyone would say so or not. He stood straight as a pike-staff despite the years, hair gone white but still plenty of it, beard trimmed close, eyes that pale Irish green with the long look in them. He’d a mug of porter and a bit of bread with mustard on a plate, and men made way for him without appearing to. His wife Tess wasn’t with him tonight. He had his cap folded under his arm like a banner furled.
Muggs’ throat felt a stitch it hadn’t when they came in. He lifted a hand under his coat, setting it against his ribs a second like he meant to hold something in place. “I’ll go say hello,” he muttered.
“I’ll come with you for support,” Kate offered, and then did not. She followed two steps and then drifted sideways as if the current took her, to where Camille caught her by the wrist with a look and a whisper about freshening up in the powder room.
Liam’s eyes had already found Muggs. There was no drama in it. There was a nod, and the old man’s mouth went a little soft at one corner. “Maitiú,” he said when Muggs came up, a name so old nobody used it but him. “You took your time.”
“Had to look handsome,” Muggs said, and it won him the brief ghost of a laugh and a pat to the cheek with four fingers, quick and manly, as if he were checking a horse for heat.
“You’re thin,” Liam said.
“I’m always thin.”
“Too thin.” Liam pushed the plate at him. “Eat.”
Muggs tore bread, dipped it, ate. “You gonna stand on me for Mass next?” he said around the bite.
“If it’ll do ye good,” Liam said, eyes wincing in the direction of the ceiling and all saints above. He sobered on his next breath, gaze sliding once toward the rear door that gave to the alley. “There’ll be trouble tonight. Your grandmother told me so before I left. She doesn't know there's to be a talk tonight. You keep your hands, you hear?”
Muggs’ jaw moved. “I hear.”
“Your father’ll make an eejit of himself or he won’t,” Liam said, low and even. “It’s not your work to set him right in front o’ strangers.”
“I know what’s my work,” Muggs said. “You see Ma lately?”
“Ran into her last market-day,” Liam said, and that same soft spot that had shown for a second at sight of his grandson warmed again. “Looked fine.”
“She’d tell you she’s old,” Muggs said, shrugging the ache away with a cock of his head. “She ain’t.”
Liam’s eyes did that long look again and then lit on Kate at Camille’s elbow, her shoulder bent as if from weight, face turned half-away. He tipped his chin almost the length of a prayer in her direction. “That’s the girl.”
“That’s the girl,” Muggs said.
“Leave it a bit,” Liam said. “Let the floor settle under her feet.”
Muggs breathed out, something like relief in it that someone had said the thing he was telling himself anyway. “I will.”
“Good lad.” Liam took his porter. “Go on, then. Before your friends drink the whole city.”
Back at the stove-corner, the talk stacked in layers about baseball, fights, which ward boss had been seen with which actress, who’d fallen off the dock, whether Beaujolais was an insult to stew. Doc’s brow tilted fractionally at that one and he did not comment. Cohen spun another dime into a glass and made it ring.
“Where’s Alexei,” someone new asked again down the table.
“Engaged,” Muggs repeated, and the chorus rose all over again.
Colm came near enough to be spoken to without being toasted, which is the line between civility and war. He took up the empty chair at the next table with his back to the wall and his hands where a man could see them, which was a kind of courtesy where he grew up. He let his eyes pass the circle once, slow, and then spoke to no one in particular. “Any of you see Conlon yet?”
“Not yet,” Cohen said. “But we got a volunteer to drag him by the ear if he makes himself scarce.”
Colm’s mouth didn’t move much. “Leave the boy. He’ll come.”
“That so,” Muggs said. He looked at Colm with that half-lidded feline attention that is not, actually, lazy at all. “You plan to tell her tonight?”
Colm’s eyes slid like a blade and caught light. “I’ll handle my matters, Matthew.”
“Sure,” Muggs said. “Only askin’ ‘cause if you don’t, someone else will.”
“What do you know about it,” Colm said mildly, and if steel has a temperature, it was that.
“Enough to carry the girl out the door if she needs carryin’,” Muggs said. “And enough to keep a drink out of your hand when you’re talkin’ at her.”
Colm looked at him another heartbeat, then away again, as if the subject were a hat he’d set on a table and might pick up or might not. “Have your dance and your drink, boy,” he said. “It’s a party.”
“Don’t ‘boy’ me,” Muggs said, but it wasn’t hot, it was a dare.
Women kept coming. A Bowery brunette put a clover on Kennedy’s lapel and he preened like a tom. Cohen acquired a paper shamrock behind one ear and left it there because he liked the joke. Leah bullied Shakespeare into the set. Colleen stamped her heel into the floor and demanded Reel No. 2. Cards finally let the front legs of his chair down and rose, on sufferance, to partner Bella through a circle. Tide rescued a whiskey from tipping and sighed like a widower with a houseful.
“Come on then,” Muggs said to Katherine when she reappeared with Camille, and the offer wasn’t a pull. It was a hand open, palm up, room enough in it to refuse. “A turn ‘round the floor. Two minutes. You can scowl the whole time, and I promise I won't have fun."
She huffed, which was almost a laugh. “I’ll step on your feet.”
“I can take it. You're basically lilliputian."
"Big word for a big man."
"Jules is reading me Gulliver's Travels."
He took her into the crowd when the pipes rose again and the fiddles settled into a tune half the room knew by the first bar. He didn’t crowd her but kept a respectable palm at her back, a respectable distance at the hip, the hand holding hers doing more reassuring than leading. The room softened around them. The heat made sense, and her mouth remembered where the smile lived, thin but there.
“Where is Julia?” Kate asked, pitched low to be heard only by him.
“At home,” he said. “She told me to keep an eye on you, so consider yourself stared at.”
She snorted. “Did you tell her I’m not a child?”
“Tell her yourself when you got the sand to,” he said, spinning her off a man who didn’t know his left from right and catching her again easy as a trick. “She ain’t tryin’ to mother you. She’s tryin’ to stop herself from it. Takes practice.”
“She’s awful at it,” Kate said, but there was no gall in it, only tiredness, and he heard it and did not say so.
When the tune died, Leah reclaimed Kate with a squeal. Colleen reclaimed Muggs with a pinch. Cohen came back victorious from some campaign at the far end with a plate of pickled eggs he insisted were supper. Someone thrust a treacle tart under Tide’s nose. The door wheezed again in the cold, and a shape in a gray cap and old habit slouched under it like weather. Jack Kelly at last, cheeks cold-bit, eyes quick, his arm looped with Sarah Jacobs'. He scanned the room in one look and then the particular table, and his mouth did that rueful shift like it couldn’t decide between apology and amusement.
“About time, Kelly,” Muggs said, meeting him halfway with a shoulder knock that could have been a shove if it wanted to. “Your sister's been fendin’ off every Duster in the ward.”
Jack's eyes cut to Sarah Jacobs, and everything else in him went quiet. “I’m here, ain't I,” he said simply.
“Have your drink,” Muggs said. “Then I’m takin’ Cohen and we’re doin’ a perimeter.”
From the corner, Liam watched Kate the way he watched weather coming off the sea, assessing, not fearing, readying. He did not move toward her yet. He took his porter, wiped the foam with a thumb, set it down. When she passed near, later, when the noise would crest and fall and crest again, he would lift his cap to her and say, quiet as a hearth, “Miss Katherine,” and if she wanted to come nearer, she could. If she didn’t, he’d leave her be. He had the sense of what a body could bear in a room like this.
For now there were plates and laughing and the scrape of chairs. Doc’s seltzer became coffee. Marianna confiscated Cohen’s third whiskey with the gravity of a magistrate and handed him water. He called her a tyrant and drank it. Colm stayed where he was, laughing with cronies, a hinge the room swung on without admitting it. The windows sweated. The eagle watched like a bad omen.
“Right,” Muggs said, clapping his hands once, the sound sharp as a starter’s pistol. He turned to Colleen and Kate. “We’ll drink one, then I’m walkin’ to fetch Conlon. Anyone puts a finger on you that you don’t fancy, point ‘em out.”
“I can handle a finger,” Kate said.
Lion whistled. "Yeah?"
“Sure,” Muggs said, ignoring him. “But tonight I feel like bein’ useful.”
It went that way for a spell. Men sang off-key. Girls kissed whom they pleased. Two lads bumped shoulders and made a near-fight of it and were hustled outside and came laughing like old friends. Cards won a hand, and Shakespeare told him not to crow. Lion decided to teach Leah a step. Cohen leaned against the post and blew smoke rings. Kennedy argued with a barman about the proper way to pull stout, then drank it anyway. Jack and Sarah bent heads and spoke over the din. Liam eased a hand to his lower, aching back and then forgot it there.
“Right,” Muggs said, checking the door again as if Spot might spring from the jambs at his name. “Enough jawin’. We fetch Conlon.”
Cohen was already digging for his cap. “At last. If he’s really reading to baby Krause I’m setting the book on fire.”
“You’ll sip that water first,” Marianna said, sliding it back into his hand without looking. He drank it with a martyr’s sigh.
“Keep her anchored,” Muggs told Grim, tilting his chin toward Kate. Grim’s only answer was a slow blink and the mild adjustment of his chair so it squarely faced the room.
“We’ll be quick,” Muggs said to Kate, low. “Blink twice and I’ll be back, draggin’ him. Stay here.”
“Don't tell me what to do,” she said primly, and very nearly smiled.
Kennedy caught the door for them. The March cold slashed in and then the two were gone.
The Banshee breathed and stamped through two sets and a polka. Julia slipped down the stairs from the club's retiring room, a brisk wind of perfume and resolve. She’d wrapped her hair up clean and simple, pinned her hair back, a modest dress made clever by the way it fit her shoulders. She paused just at the landing, feeling the temperature, then crossed to the bar with a dignified purpose.
Liv Blake looked up from where she sat, surrounded by Dusters with a hungry gleam in their eyes.
The bruise at her collarbone was ghosted under powder, mouth painted and set. At her elbow was Jab Johnson, laughing with his whole back, and nearby sat Cian Tracey, the younger Tracey in a neat dark suit with a carnation tucked low at the buttonhole. Liv’s gaze slid to Julia and back to the men, chin tilting with that little cat’s smile.
Julia asked for coffee, “hot as sin, black as you’ve got”, and paid for it herself.
The bartender warmed to her at once, pressing a saucer under the cup like a benediction. “Your friends are over by the stove,” he said. “The big blond one with a pipe told me to send you there when you came.”
“My thanks,” Julia murmured, a steady breath in, one out. Then she turned and shouldered the crowd.
Grim saw her and did not stand. He only nodded once and kicked a chair out with his boot. “Sit, dear,” he said. “You look like you made up your mind.”
“I did,” Julia answered. “Then I ruined it twice. Here I am regardless.” She set down the coffee, gloved fingers tight to keep them from shaking. “Where’s Matthew?”
“Gone after Spot with Cohen.”
“Great,” she said through a small, betraying breath. “He wanted me here. So, here I am. And he's gone.”
Ro slipped up, kissed Julia on the cheek, and whisked away again to track down the barman.
Across the room, Cian pushed his chair back and, with an easy confidence that made women say yes without fully hearing the question, held a hand to Genevieve Marquette. She rose with a delighted mais oui and the two of them slid into a dance that had the whole corner clapping time. Genevieve’s laughter lifted bright. Cian’s grin was all boyish charm and devil.
Liv watched them go. Her expression didn’t break.
Kate didn’t spot Julia until the dance broke. She turned with Leah’s hand in hers and found Julia standing two paces off, hat in hand now, hairpins catching the lamplight like tiny stars. The look on Julia’s face was not brave. It was willing, and somehow that was more difficult to bear.
“Hello,” Julia said.
“Hello,” Kate returned, in a perfectly civil tone.
Silence stood between them. Too long.
“I came to say—” Julia started.
“Please don’t fuss,” Kate blurted, then flushed, the plea coming out sharper than she meant.
“I won’t,” Julia said at once. “I won’t. I only—” She held her gloves together, thumbs working the seams. “Katherine, I’m sorry. I’ve been…overbearing. Loud where you needed quiet. It isn’t my place to try to mend you on my schedule as if you were a loose hem.”
Kate exhaled, a breath that shook once and steadied. “I don’t like being managed, Julia. And I don't know if I have the strength to discuss this right now.”
“I know,” Julia said softly. “I know it absolutely. And still I did it because worrying is the only instrument I play well. But it comes out shrill.”
A corner of Kate’s mouth lifted. “That you play quite well.”
“I should’ve gone for silence,” Julia said, and her eyes glossed before she blinked the gloss back. "You must hate me."
Kate looked at her coffee then, at the curls escaping Julia’s updo, at the way Julia’s knuckles had gone white from holding her gloves so hard and then let color creep back. “I don’t hate you,” Kate said, a little surprised to hear herself tell the truth aloud.
“No,” Julia said, with a tiny, rueful smile. “You’re much too honest for that.”
There, at last, was something like a small laugh between them, quick and true. It loosened the cord in both their chests.
“Will you sit?” Kate asked, gesturing to the chair Grim had warmed. “For a minute.”
“For as long as you like, Sunshine,” Julia said. She sat. Neither of them attempted to fill the moment with more apology than it could hold. For now, this was close enough.
From the musicians’ corner, Genevieve twirled and Cian’s palm found the small of her back with an elegance that drew appreciative whistles. Liv leaned into Jab’s shoulder and let herself laugh at something wicked he said.
“Matthew will be back with Tom,” Julia said after a time, watching the floor and not Kate. “You won’t have to dance alone.”
“I'm not,” Kate said. “Not with that lot.” She tipped her chin toward Grim, Tide, No Name, and Lion. "They've made sure my dance card is full."
“Good,” Julia murmured. Her fingers stopped abusing the glove seams.
The door banged open on a cheer.
The March wind shoved three men in at once. Muggs first, coat open, hair damp, eyes bright in the way they get when he’s pleased with himself. Cohen close behind, swearing amiably about a stoop he swore tried to murder him. Spot Conlon in the middle, cap cocked, mouth crooked, pretending boredom.
A triumphant whoop climbed from the back: “Conlon!” Someone banged a glass on the bar as if to signal an entrance of high kings.
Spot took the noise with a frown and a look that said he was already regretting this.
After some mingling, he let Kate find him. She did, swift-like, the way a compass needle breathes toward north.
Muggs took two strides straight to Julia at last, tipped down to kiss her brow without asking and muttered for her ear only, “You look good enough to eat.”
“You still reek of my perfume,” she said, relieved in a way annoyance made easy.
“Good,” he grinned, and then thumped Grim’s shoulder, clapped Tide’s back, and held up two fingers to Kennedy to signal a round.
On the floor, Cian and Genevieve finished their set to a proper clatter of applause. Cian bowed with an old-world flourish that belonged to a better room than the Banshee; Genevieve dipped like she’d been born on a stage. Liv’s eyes flicked over the pair, and whatever she felt didn’t register beyond the upward tilt of her mouth and the tightening of her glove button.
Spot turned to Kate, the chaos falling off them both for a breath. “You ran me ragged for this,” he said, trying gruff and missing by a mile. “Don’t make it for nothing.”
Kate might have said something clever and barbed, but what came out instead was simple. “Thank you.”
“That’s new,” he said, colored a little, pleased more than he’d allow, and then they were jostled apart by friends and toasts and Cohen announcing to anyone who’d listen that he’d risked death on a treacherous stoop to deliver a hero to the faithful.
“Drink,” Muggs said to the table at large. “And then, God help us all, dancing.”
“God helps those who don’t step on my feet,” Leah said, already reaching for Tide.
“God helps those who drink their water,” Doc added, handing Cohen another glass he hadn’t asked for.
The room swelled and spun and filled itself again. Out of the corner of his eye, Spot could swear he saw Colm Tracey escort Kate outside.
The alley air skinned her lungs raw. The door was heavier than it had been. Why was it so heavy?
When Kate came back through it, she wasn’t the girl who’d stepped out. She crossed the crowded room like a blind thing, past the bar’s glow, past the coat hooks, past the stove, and straight for the island she always found. Grim. His chair was by the coal stove, one long leg thrown out, Henry's cap abandoned on the crate between his boots.
He was already half up out of his chair as if some string inside him had been tugged from the moment she left. She reached him, and the first sound that got loose of her was little and strangled and not for public use. Grim put a hand on her shoulder and turned so his back made a wall to the room.
“Here,” he said, not a question.
She folded in, not collapsing, not falling apart, just letting the lean happen as if the world had tilted and his shoulder were the one square thing left. His big hand came up to the back of her head and held there, fingers still.
“Coffee,” he told Tide, who was already moving.
“Sweet,” Tide asked over his shoulder.
“Very,” Grim said. “And bread.”
“On it.”
Ro appeared like a shadow, slipped a folded handkerchief into Kate’s hand, stroked her shoulder once, and stood guard at the corner without speaking.
Julia stood where she was for two long seconds, then crossed with deliberate calm and set her coffee down near Grim’s elbow. “She can have mine,” she told him. “It’s hot.”
Grim nodded without looking up. “Thank you.”
Kate didn’t sob. Her breath went strange and small, her fingers pinched tight in the cloth of Grim’s sleeve. His calloused thumb moved once at her nape in a slow, mindless circle.
On the other side of the room, someone shouted for The Wind That Shakes the Barley and someone else told him to shut his gob because the room wasn’t in the mood. The fiddler chose a low air instead, and talk dropped to a murmur.
Liam Tracey, across at his leaner’s spot by the bar, did not approach. He watched the turn of Grim’s shoulder, the bowed dark head under his hand, and he set his palm flat on the bar as if to keep his own body at anchor. He lifted his porter and didn’t drink it.
Tide came back with coffee and bread and set them down without clink. “Everything’s paid,” he said, to no one in particular and to everyone who needed to know.
Kate managed a swallow. The coffee was too sweet.
Grim didn’t ask a single thing. He simply kept, a task men rarely know how to do and almost never do well. He kept himself turned, the crowd screened, the cup near at hand, the hand at her nape, the room from seeing. He kept until her breath returned to itself, until the flare in her chest went to cinders, until she could find her mouth again.
She lifted her head at last, green eyes bright and furious and hurt all at once, and Grim tipped his own just enough to meet them. “Alright, ketsele,” he said, soft and ordinary. “You got me."
She managed three words, and they came out like stones. “He says—his.”
Grim’s jaw knotted. He didn’t look over her head toward the bar where Colm’s voice rose and fell. He didn’t say the easy lie. He put his back to the plaster and his big hand around the ridge of her shoulder and said, “Breathe with me.”
“I can’t—” The corset bit cruelly. Her breath fluttered like a trapped bird. She pressed her knuckles against her mouth as if she could push the night back down her throat.
“Count it,” Grim said. “Four in, four out. Come on. Again.” He did it with her, the way he’d done a hundred nights when she was eleven and the bad dreams came howling, and by the third she could feel the floor again.
She fumbled at her little coin purse then, blind with fury and panic both. The little hash-laced, hand-rolled cigarettes knocked her knuckles. Grim’s hand closed over hers before she had it out, gentle iron.
“Not tonight,” he said.
“They're mine,” she hissed through her teeth, half-girl, half-wild thing. She sank into Grim's chair. "Better than opium, isn't it?"
“It’ll be his victory,” Grim said, not unkind. “Don’t hand him the match.”
She swore, soft and filthy, even as the heat leaked out of her bones and left her shaking. He had his old handkerchief out (clean, as always) and pushed it into her palm. “Dab your eyes, or Leah’ll peck you to bits.”
Julia froze two steps away, and Muggs came hard on her shoulder like a storm bank rolling. For a split second Julia looked like she’d fling herself at Kate and get it all wrong again. Then she strangled the impulse and sank to her knees, skirts to the floorboards, hands open on her own knees.
“I knew,” she said, the words so naked they almost hurt to hear. “Matthew and I both knew. This morning.”
Kate went still in the way only the truly exhausted can go still. “You lied.”
“I was worried,” Julia said, voice steady only because she was holding it with both hands. “I thought, if I told you, I’d be the knife. But Colm already had his hand on the hilt, Katherine. I was wrong to keep it. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you add yourself to his tally,” Muggs snapped. He dropped to a crouch, bringing those green eyes level with Kate’s. “Listen to me. You’re my sister. Half, whole—don’t matter to me."
“Don’t,” she managed, furious and wrecked and grateful in the same trembling breath. “Don’t call me that like you own me.”
He huffed a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “You think I want to own anyone? I want you in my life. That’s all.”
Footsteps, quick and sure, and then Spot was there, hair damp with weather, blue eyes narrowed, hands empty and up like he was approaching a skittish colt.
“Katherine,” he said, soft enough to be a secret.
She darted a look at him and away, like the look itself would split her. “He told me,” she said, as if it were a crime and this were a confession. “Out back. He says—” Her mouth twisted. “—he says Edward’s not my father. That he is.”
Spot’s face went white as chalk under the light. He cut a hard glance to Muggs, to Julia, to Grim, reading in their stillness that there would be no waking up from this one. His palm hovered at her shoulder, then settled, light as you please.
“Alright, well...You don’t gotta hide,” he said. “Not with me here. Not ever.”
“Christ Almighty,” Muggs muttered, half-rising like he was going to take the whole back wall off its hinges and feed it to Colm. Grim only laid two fingers on Muggs’ sleeve, the old signal, and Muggs stayed.
The back corridor breathed colder. Another shadow lifted in the doorway, one broad-shouldered still, but the weight of years softening the corners. Liam Tracey took off his cap and held it in both hands, as if approaching a church rail.
“Miss Katherine,” he said.
The name folded around her like a blanket she hadn’t known she wanted. She looked up without lifting her chin, wary and young and fierce all at once.
“I won’t press you,” he said. “I won’t lay a claim. I’ll only say this. If you should ever want to know me, or your grandmother, there’s a kettle on at our house most hours, and a chair near the fire no one fills as well as family. But you needn’t decide tonight. Blood can be a blessing or a burden. Sometimes it’s both. Either way, it won’t run away from you, lass.”
He didn’t reach for her. He reached to his own vest and brought up a small, thumb-worn prayer card—St. Jude, the gilding rubbed thin. He held it out. “For your pocket. Or the bin, if you like. I won’t be insulted.”
Her fingers closed around it before she could summon sense to refuse. The little gilt edge bit her palm and kept her here in her skin.
“Thank you,” she whispered numbly, and watched him go, and in that watching felt the world tilt one degree toward survivable.
Inside, the room swelled and ebbed, a living lung. Fiddles took a mad jig and tossed it about. Leah was on somebody’s chair, beating time with the heel of her hand and laughing too loud. A Duster girl in a green shawl tried to sell Cards a paper shamrock for his hat. Cohen bought two and stuck one behind Sophie's ear just to watch her swat it like a fly.
Julia put her hand out. Not to fuss, not to steer, but just to be taken or not. “Stay, please,” she said, low. “Don’t let him make you run.”
“I want to smoke until the earth falls off the edge,” Kate said, brutal truth laid clean.
“And I want to hang Colm Tracey by his drawers,” Julia answered, the same. “Let us both do better for one night.”
Muggs uncapped his flask. “If you must burn,” he said, “burn whiskey, not your lungs.” He tilted it to Julia, who hesitated then accepted it, taking a huge swig. Then another. Then another. And a fourth until Grim intercepted it and swapped it for a glass with coffee and a mean snort of something decent in it.
“Doctor’s orders,” Doc said dryly from three paces off, having materialized the way he always. “You’ll hate every swallow and thank me in an hour.”
She took it. The heat slid down and made a small anchor in her belly. She kept Julia’s hand because she wanted to and not because anyone asked her to. Muggs brushed her temple with the back of his knuckles, ridiculous and tender, and then, because the music would not be denied, Cohen dragged Sophie into a set that had no respect for a man’s dignity.
They drew Kate back into the light by degrees, all of them conspiring without the sense to call it that. Leah forced a smile out of her with a scandal whispered behind her fingers. Tide put a treacle tart in her hand. Camille looped an arm through hers and murmured soft reassurances. No Name swooped in and swore he’d seen a man at the end of the bar who could tie a cherry stem in a knot with his tongue and then proved it himself, choking spectacularly and bringing the house down.
Out on the floor, Cian had Genevieve in a hold respectable enough for church and sinful enough for the Banshee. Genevieve’s laugh floated like good perfume. May Mahoney leaned on the pillar and clapped time, calling something bawdy to her friend in a Mayo lilt.
Colm stayed in his corner with a few firemen. Liam found him there, not with a fist but with a look. They spoke too low for anyone but the plaster to hear.
“You could have told her in daylight,” Liam said. "More respectable."
“She had to know,” Colm said. "Nothing about this is respectable."
“There’s truth,” Liam said. “And there’s cruelty. Learn the difference before it kills something you might yet love.”
Colm’s mouth made a shape that wasn’t a smile and wasn’t a snarl, either. “It'll be alright,” he said, but even he didn’t know if he meant her or himself.
Back at the stove, the girls descended. Two Duster molls pressed close with their bright little grins and their small, clever hands.
“Evenin’, Tracey,” one sang to Muggs. “You dance as well as you brawl?”
“Worse,” Julia said tipsily, appearing as if conjured. She caught Muggs by the tie, hauled him down, and kissed him like a woman claiming salvage rights. A cheer went up that started with Cohen.
"What did you give her to drink, Muggs?" Cards snickered.
“Keep your paws to yourself, then,” Julia said, breathless but smiling like she hadn’t in a week. Muggs’ eyes were wicked and soft at once. He’d thank her for rescuing him from being devoured alive later. For now he let the room laugh itself back into ease on the heat of that kiss.
Kate sat again, and Spot sat with her, not on top of her sorrow, but beside it. He slung his arm careless along the back of her chair, elbow far enough away that she could imagine it was only the chair he held. His voice, when it came, ran smooth as a file.
“You want to go,” he said. Not a question. “We can go. Say the word.”
She looked at the door, at the alley she’d already used as a refuge and a trap. She looked at Liam’s weathered profile and at Muggs’ idiot grin and at Julia’s flushed cheeks and the streak of bay rum still clinging to Jack’s jaw. She looked at Grim’s big hands wrapped round a coffee mug like an altar candle.
“I want to stay,” she said, surprised by the shape of it in her mouth.
“Good,” Spot said, and then, to both of their surprise, “Dance?”
“I’m used to leading.”
“I’m fast,” he said, and his smile did the particular tilt that had sent girls to hell with their heads up since he was fifteen. “And you’re small. I'll steer you no problem.”
“Challenge accepted,” she said, trying to smile, and she let him get her up anyway. Her body remembered what to do when the music came. He didn’t hustle her. He was better than he looked, because of course he was, and he taught the set to move around her without saying so, and after the second turn she was laughing through snotty tears like a fool.
“Where’d you learn?” she accused him when he got a full twirl out of her without wrenching her rib.
“From watchin’ other idiots flail,” he said. “And from wanting to make you forget you were crying for two minutes.”
She blinked hard. “I’m not crying.”
“Good,” he said, and then the tune changed and he did, too, and she let herself be carried because for the first time since the alley she felt constructed of bones and not glass.
They made a night of it, because the only way out was through. Shots appeared and were confiscated and reappeared. Doc drank seltzer and then coffee and then, under protest, a thimble of porter to shut Tide up. Marianna adjudicated a dispute over who’d promised Leah a waltz like she were a judge in chancery. Cards took three hands and got caught on the fourth, and Shakespeare used the moment to deliver a monologue about hubris nobody listened to. Lion pulled a step out of his pocket nobody had seen and taught it to Bella while No Name clapped like a seal. The barmaid with the russet hair gave Kate a glass of whiskey, then another, and then a plate with a heel of bread pressed with ham and mustard and a look that brooked no argument. Kate ate half and put the rest into Grim’s hand as tax.
At some natural break, at one or two, less hour when the night forgets itself, the fiddles leaned into a slow air and the Banshee breathed like something alive and tired. Kate’s head found the slope of Grim’s arm as a pillow, just for a heartbeat. He didn’t move. He didn’t have to tell her not to bolt. He’d pinned the instinct without cruelty twelve times already. Muggs’ laugh carried from the bar. Julia’s low voice answered it. Spot’s thumb drew an absent line on the spine of her hand where it lay on the table. Bella was asleep with her forehead on her own sleeve, hairpins abandoned like buckshot. Liam had gone home.
Colm stood at the edge of it all, a man built like a verdict. He lifted his glass once toward the stove corner where the lot of them were gathered. It wasn’t an apology and it wasn’t a threat. It was a father looking at what he’d done and not knowing the words.
“Still want to run?” Spot murmured into the edge of her hair.
“Later, maybe,” she said, honest. “Not tonight.”
“Good,” he said again, as if the word had become a sacrament.
“Tomorrow I’ll hate you all,” she added, because some part of her could still make a joke.
“Tomorrow we’ll let you,” Muggs called over his shoulder without turning, hearing everything and nothing, the way he always did.
The Banshee tilted from lively to lurching, with songs louder, skirts looser, jokes gone wicked at the edges. Heat slicked the windows. Kate watched as somebody dragged the coal grate open and fed it two extra shovels for no reason but bravado. The fiddlers had abandoned the careful airs for reels that shook nails out of the walls.
“Right,” Cohen said, tipping back the last of his whiskey. “Conlon’s round now."
Muggs clapped his palm to Spot's shoulder. “Come on then. Kennedy, watch the girls don’t drink our shares.”
Kennedy blew him a kiss. “Bring me back a saint or a sinner. I ain’t picky.”
“Don’t kiss me,” Muggs said, but he grinned, and he and Spot sauntered back up to the bar.
Romi and Atlas Giannotti arrived like a matched pair of firecrackers, dark curls springing from caps, cheeks hot from the March wind, talking over each other about a longshore fight they’d passed on Eleventh where a hook had flown like a bird. They swung straight toward Tide’s corner, where Claudia de la Vega, brown-eyed and Cuban in her vowels, was teaching him to roll his r’s like a Spaniard between sips of rum. Tide stood to greet the twins and tried some Spanish show, but it came out like gibberish. Claudia laughed into her hand and kissed his jaw to pardon him.
Oliver came in on the same draft, case in hand, shoulders wrapped in a coat shiny at the seams. He was grinning already, the kind of grin that made the barmaids grin back, his eyes scanning for an empty stretch near the piano. He tipped his hat at the house band, got a nod, and set up by the old square piano that went sharp when the room got hot and nobody minded. The first chords he crushed out were a swinging thing half-spiritual, half-street, then he slid into an Irish tune so clean even the old men turned to see where that shine came from. A cheer went up on the second bar.
Colleen Tracey froze mid-sip, cup hovering like a halo. “What's his name again?” she asked no one in particular and everyone at once.
“Oliver,” Leah said, grinning like sin, because she knew a new Colleen-infatuation when she saw one take root. “He makes the piano go indecent.”
“I’ll die,” Colleen whispered, already pink, already doomed.
“Don’t die,” Leah said sternly. “What on earth would I wear to your wake.”
Marquette rose with a courtly little half-bow and bowed lower still to Camille before dragging her into a two-step. Cian cut in on the next measure with the kind of gentle insistence no one resented. Genevieve laughed low in her throat and went with him, the two of them a handsome line under the humid lamps. May Mahoney whooped with one of Colm's fireman, tossed a curl from her brow, and shouted the name of the tune as if she’d conjured it.
Doc and Marianna were holding a civilized argument about quinine versus whiskey when Raffi Boudreaux shouldered in from the side door—sea-cured, broader across the back than when he’d been a boy in the Refuge, eyes bright and wind-burned. He had a sailor’s gait still. He also had a ring glinting on his finger.
“Christ, Raffi!” No Name crowed, half-up from his chair before he remembered he had bones. “You drown and forget to report it?”
Raffi laughed and it rolled, low and sure. “Not yet.” He took Marianna by the shoulders and kissed both her cheeks to her exasperated delight. “Sis, you threatening the doctor again?”
“I am educating him,” she said, chin up.
Doc tipped two fingers. “I am uneducable.”
Raffi’s gaze fell on Kate and transformed. “Little Katerina,” he said, and there was nothing little about her now but he said it like a benediction, not a slight. He folded her into a hug that smelled of salt and rope, lifted her off her feet half an inch like she weighed what she had at eight. When he set her down his eyes found her face with that old, simple loyalty that had once wrapped around Jesse Tracey and anyone Jesse loved. “You look strong.”
“It's make-believe,” she admitted, but she smiled with her eyes this time.
“That counts,” he said. "How the hell are ya, girl?"
Alexei and Elena swept in with the late crowd. Elena’s hair pinned up with little carnation buds, Alexei trying to look sober and failing for the smile. He raised his hand and the room rose with him. He and Elena got a chorus of “Hup!” from half the tables and an unholy wolf-whistle from Tide. Elena flashed the ring. The girls surged, trapping her in a bouquet of lace and perfume.
“Oh, my heart,” Bella gasped, grabbing Elena’s hand with both of hers. “He did it proper!”
“Down on his knee?” Leah demanded. “Tell the truth.”
“He asked me in the park,” Elena said, blushing and incandescent. “He was so nervous he spilled coffee on the sidewalk. I nearly fainted. Everyone was clapping, it was so special,” Elena laughed, eyes wet, and then the embrace took her again. Marianna, Sophie, Bella, Camille, Ro, Julia—congratulations stacked on congratulations, all those women’s hands smoothing the news into something permanent, like pressing a seal in warm wax.
Kate, who had been made of glass and saltwater an hour before, stepped into that circle. She hugged Elena with a steadiness she didn’t know she had. “I’m so happy,” she said, and realized she was telling the truth even if the truth sat next to ten other truths that hurt.
“Stay by me,” Elena whispered back, fierce. “All of you. Always.”
Across the room, Lion was being indecent with his wicked way with words and a Bowery girl. Cards was being indecent with his gambling. Shakespeare was being indecent with his dance with Leah.
Grim, seeing Sophie and Bella yawn so wide a man could hang his hat, rose with a nod to Kate and a promise in his eyes. “Cab for the pair of you,” he said, catching their elbows like a pair of parcels he’d sign for. “Before you turn into pumpkins or bite someone.”
“I already bit someone I think,” Bella murmured, half-asleep, and Sophie giggled and then hid her face in her shawl.
They got to the vestibule before a voice like a file dragged over iron rasped behind them. “Miles,” Nell Anderson said, sharp as a slap.
He turned without changing anything about his posture. She had color in her cheeks from the heat and whiskey and fury, the smirk pasted on like the rouge she’d worn as a matron when she wanted to look gentler than she was.
“Escort me home,” she said, as if he were a porter, as if the old days hadn’t put a noose between them.
“No thanks,” Grim said. Not loud. Not cruel. The refusal sat plain and heavy on the floor.
Nell’s eyes flashed. “You used to run when I called.”
“Used to."
Something mean and starving uncoiled in her smile. “No,” she said, dripping contempt, gesturing to Bella and Sophie. “Now you’re what? Their pet?”
He didn’t blink. “Get your own cab, Mrs. Anderson."
She watched him take Colleen and Bella out to the curb, watched him lift his cap to them and put his big hand on each of their heads just long enough to bless them without making a show of it, watched him hand the driver too much money and tell him twice where to take them and to watch for a hand waving from the upstairs window.
Then Nell turned and slid back toward the stove. She saw Henry’s cap on the crate, saw Henry himself half-hidden by the pillar, pocketing a checker piece he’d stolen from the board.
“You must be Henry Krause,” Nell purred, stepping into the wedge of shadow. “Come say hello to an old friend like a good boy.”
“I don’t know you,” Henry said, chin hot.
“Don’t you?” She leaned just close enough that her breath touched his ear. There was nothing of caress in it. “I know you. I know where boys like you come from and where they go when they’re not careful.” She tilted her head, a serpent tasting the air.
Henry’s shoulders went stiff under his jacket. “Where?”
“Your father knows,” Nell breathed, lowering her voice like a woman telling a bedtime story. “You might ask him.”
Henry’s face changed from wary to wide, from bravado to boy. “You mean reform school?” he said. The words were hard but the sound was small.
“Is that what he calls it?” Nell’s smile bared a tooth.
Henry’s hands closed into fists at his sides.
Nell Anderson slipped in beside Henry like she’d been invited, voice syrup-sweet. “My, my,” she said, eyes flicking toward Grim outside as if to admire him. “You’re fortunate, you know. Your father has such a big heart. Always so generous, so willing to give himself to those in need.”
Henry blinked, not sure whether to nod.
Nell leaned closer, her perfume sharp as cloves. “It’s a shame Katherine Moore was so poorly behaved that she dragged your father into trouble with her. If not for her, your mother and father would have been able to keep you from the beginning. But maybe," her smile slanted, “maybe that was her intention all along.”
Henry stiffened. “That’s not true.”
She cooed, tilting her head. “Mm, perhaps. But then again… strange, isn’t it? To think how different things might’ve been. Why, I sometimes wonder if your father would have been able to take you in at all had Katherine not lost the baby she was carrying. Perhaps it was a blessing, I mean, she was in no position to raise a child, let alone another girl’s besides. What a curious little stepmother she would have made. And all while your poor mama was sent away, after giving birth to you.”
Henry's jaw twitched. "Sent away?"
“Perhaps,” she said, delighting in the gleam of fear like a magpie at a trinket. “Perhaps I only know the right doors to knock on.” She leaned closer, voice dropping needle-thin. “You want to see your mother again, don’t you? Say the word and—”
“Enough.”
Alexei’s voice cut clean as a scalpel. He was there in a stride, hand on Henry’s shoulder first, anchoring, then interposing his own body between boy and viper. “You will take yourself to the other side of the room,” he told Nell, calm because he had to be, eyes stony. “Now.”
Nell’s smile went poisonous, her tone shifting from intimate to mocking as she pulled back. “Oh, my. So big now, I hardly recognized you. Congratulations on your bride-to-be, Mr. Morozov,” she said sweetly, her eyes darkening. She got close enough to bite, looking up at the man she'd once tortured. "It's good to see you doing so well after all these years." She took a tart from a tray and held it out to him. "You shouldn't be celebrating on an empty stomach."
“Does Krause know you're talking nonsense to his boy,” Alexei returned, ignoring the tart, even as Henry reached for it. He didn’t raise his voice. He raised his chin. “What are you doing here, Nell.”
The answer came silk-slick and crude. “Muggs Tracey’s daddy,” she said, almost sing-song, relishing the look on Alexei's face. “So be nice to me, hm.”
Nell Anderson drifted closer as Grim stepped away toward the cab to help the girls in, her smile fixed like a brooch. She turned her gaze full on Henry, voice soft as satin.
“You know,” she said, almost conspiratorial, “you really do take after your father. Those eyes… that face. You’ll be handsome, too, Henry.”
The boy shifted, shoulders tightening under her appraisal.
"That's a compliment," Nell said expectantly. "You're supposed to say thank you."
Alexei gave Henry a gentle push toward the girls' huddle. “I told you—enough,” he bit out. His gray eyes cut her to ribbons.
Alexei’s mouth hardened. For one dangerous second he took half a step back, and the men at the nearest table—Tide, No Name, Ilya Kovacs, Trick Kilcullen—rose as one without even glancing at each other, hands ready to take Alexei’s elbows as if hauling a friend back from a pier’s edge.
“Tch, enough of that,” Tide said cheerfully, clapping Alexei around the neck and hauling him sideways into a grateful mob. “’Tis a sin to brood on such a blessed occasion, lad. Whiskey all round for the groom! Off with him! Off!”
They swept Alexei toward the bar amid a cheer and a clatter and slammed five little glasses in a row—no “shots,” not here, but quick jiggers. “To the lady who said yes,” No Name declared, “and the idiot who thought to ask.” Elena blew a kiss from across the room, laughed, and was immediately swallowed in a fresh rain of hugs.
Henry pulled once to follow Alexei. Kate caught his sleeve and drew him into her side. “You alright?”
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
She shrugged back. “Good,” then bent to bring her mouth to his ear. “That lady's poison. Don’t talk to her.”
“Is my—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He looked seven, and then he looked far older than that in the same blink.
“You ought to be getting home now,” Kate said, every syllable a stake into the truth. “Where did your father go?” She slid him to the other side of her, away from the line of Nell’s sight, and crooked a finger at Nick Moretti, and Ro’s boy came dutifully, Jesse in his eyes, quick and sly and loyal. Ro herself angled in a heartbeat later, reading faces as if they were the only scripture that mattered.
“What did she say,” Ro murmured, already knowing.
“I’ll find out later,” Kate said. “Stay close to your boy.”
“I always do,” Ro said, and her glance went like a razor toward Nell.
On the other side of the room, Julia had seen Alexei’s jaw and the way Elena’s shoulders squared. She slid into the circle of girls and took Elena’s hands and said something that made Elena’s eyes spill for one second and then dry. “I’m all right,” Elena said aloud, for everyone, even for herself. “Bring me a shot before Tide steals every last one.”
“Too late,” Tide called after slamming an empty glass on the counter. Claudia snatched the next one out of his hand and fed Elena a shot.
Lash Kina drifted in from the edge of the crowd with that soft-footed grace that always made people look twice without quite knowing why. He greeted Julia with a little flourish, kissed Kate’s knuckles like a prince at a country fair, and lifted a brow at Marquette. “You owe me a dance, missy,” he declared to the young lady, and Marquette surrendered Camille up into Lash’s arm for a turn.
Ilya Kovacs and Trick Kilcullen had a dice game brewing that Cards smelled from two tables off. Shakespeare attempted to declaim “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” and was soon surrounded by admiring Bowery girls. Lion promised three women at once that they alone held his heart and winked at a fourth to prove he was lying. Leah borrowed Sarah Jacobs’ hairpins and returned none of them. Jack picked them out of Leah's hair as if he were removing little daggers and tucked them back into Sarah’s with care.
Oliver saw Colleen at last and crooked a finger without presumption. “You sing, baby?”
She startled. “No—I—yes—no—I could try…”
“Sing,” he said, kindly as a teacher, and vamped four bars of “The Lass of Aughrim.” Colleen’s voice came small and sweet, then truer, then bold enough to put harmony under the chorus, and by the second verse the whole room had joined her, even the men who sang a quarter-beat behind. Oliver gave her the piano’s edge as a partner. She carried it, and when she faltered, he smiled without looking and the smile propped her right back up. Leah’s eyes went glossy. Marianna pressed her fingers to her mouth to keep from squealing. Oliver just played and played until the tune set like sugar and the old men at the back blinked hard and pretended it was the smoke.
Colm Tracey watched all of it with a face like a locked door. He had his coat over his arm and his hat in his fist, and when Liam drifted past him with a look that said, Go before you make it worse, Colm went. He didn’t look toward Kate. He didn’t look toward Nell. He left on the downbeat of the next tune and did not take Nell with him.
Nell saw it, the knowledge hatcheted into her eyes. She swallowed her whiskey wrong and coughed. When she turned again, she turned toward Alexei to see he was laughing now, forcibly, as the men made him drink to his doom, and she spat her congratulations once more slow and lethal, as if the word itself were filth. Alexei did not dignify it with an answer. He knocked back the whiskey and let his friends make noise enough to drown one bitter woman out.
Grim shouldered back in not long after, snow-dust on his hair where the fog had kissed it, satisfied. He saw Henry and read the bruise in the boy’s posture and did not ask a question he didn’t need answered. He set his big palm against Henry’s back and left it there until the small, tremoring breaths evened again. Then he looked up and found Kate’s eye, and she nodded once—later—and he nodded back. A small forgiveness passed between them that neither had exactly asked for: they each would hold the other’s ugly truths until morning.
Muggs and Cohen blew back over with Spot in tow with a tray of drinks. Muggs lifted Spot’s wrist like a promoter. “Look who's my new favorite,” he crowed. The table cheered. Sarah lit up like a struck match and tried her first sip. Jack smirked when she winced and immediately searched for a cup of water. Spot rolled his eyes toward Kate as if to say, You see what I suffer, then hooked his ankle around her chair and dragged it closer, obnoxious and dear.
“Dance,” he told her.
“I already did,” she said.
“Then do it again,” he said, and because she was a contrary creature who only ever obeyed a man when it was her idea, she obeyed him.
Julia, who had not meant to drink more than a cordial, was laughing like a girl and flushed like a cardinal and kissing Muggs whenever he stooped close, which was often. He palmed her hip through serge and stole a proper kiss behind the stair post. She bit his lower lip with perfect malice and made him swear, and then she fixed his tie again and swatted the back of his head before sending him out to the floor to humiliate poor Kate. “Don’t maul the child,” she warned sweetly.
“Who, me,” he said, already grabbing Kate with a twirl that made her shriek and grin. "Alright, little cat. Let's see what you've got."
Raffi roped Grim into a hug so hard he lifted the big man’s boots an inch and told him he was uglier than he remembered. Marianna told both to stop interrupting her opinions with their bellowing. Doc pulled her close and kept one eye on Kate and Henry anyway. Tide tried to teach Claudia the words to “Finnegan’s Wake” and mangled them such that she wept with laughter and kissed him to shut him up. He decided this was a very fine method of music instruction and forgot the rest of the verse.
Cian, still gliding Genevieve through a slow waltz stolen from Vienna by way of a New York parlor, bent his mouth to her ear and said something that made her laugh the pure laugh of a woman flattered by a handsome fool and old enough to know the cost.
Nell simmered on the fringe, cut off from Colm, cut off from Grim, cut off from the small boy she’d tried to poison. She poured that heat into fresh venom and found fewer and fewer throats to put it in.
By the time Oliver swung into a rag that made the floorboards want to dance by themselves, the Banshee was drunk and beautiful and shameless in the old, good way, with people doing what people do when the week lets go. Kissing in the corners and behind door curtains, clapping off-beat, singing on the right one, swearing vows they’d remember in the morning and vows they wouldn’t. French letters changed hands with winks and no sermon. A corset laced was un-laced two notches so a girl could breathe and laugh at the same time. No Name learned he could take a tumble on a chair without breaking it and thanked God. A Duster who thought himself hard learned he could cry at “The Parting Glass."
Kate stood it all in the middle, dancing with Muggs, buffeted by joy and foolishness, and found that the terror had edges she could see now. It didn’t own the room. It was only a bad guest with a loud voice. She let Spot make an idiot of himself dancing with Leah so she could laugh. She let Julia straighten her hairpin as if nothing between them had ever been crooked. She let Grim’s shoulder be there, big and ordinary, like furniture you lean against without thinking. She let Raffi kiss her temple like a brother who’d promised an old ghost he’d keep the living safe. She even let herself look once toward Liam’s empty place at the bar and tuck the prayer card deeper into her pocket.
Later, when the lamps burned down into little moons, when the fiddles softened, when the net of friendship had held through drink and news and malice, when last calls were made, Grim came back from seeing a second pair of girls, Leah and Colleen, to a cab and found Kate exactly where he’d left her. He took the measure of her without asking, and she took the measure of him without telling, and both found the numbers tolerable.
“Still here,” Grim murmured into her hair as his arms wrapped around her shoulders.
“Still here,” she said, and the words, this time, were not a boast and not a plea. They were a fact. And facts, even brutal ones, were a kind of mercy.
Muggs didn’t ask so much as steer Julia, a hand at the small of her back, a whisper at her ear: “Five minutes.” The little back room off the landing smelled of starch and coal dust and the two of them, bay rum and roses, once the door clicked and stuck in its swollen jamb.
“Matthew—” she began with a giggle, still half in the corridor, but his mouth cut off the rest. The kiss was the kind he gave when words kept making a mess of things. It was hard, tasting of smoke and whiskey and something that had been building all week. She pushed at his chest on reflex, a breath of protest, but her fingers curled in his shirt instead, knuckles whitening against linen as he crowded her back to the door.
“Been a week,” he rasped into her jaw. “You trying to kill me, Jules?”
“I was trying to be sensible,” she said, already breathless, “which is impossible when you—” He’d found the hooks at the back of her bodice and loosened two, and she shivered as the night air and his hands slid in together. Sensible fled. She tipped her chin and found his mouth again, slower for a heartbeat, then lost the pace she meant to keep. "Too much on my mind."
He laughed under his breath, that wicked little sound that made her knees feel unreliable, and hitched her closer, hands taking their liberties at her waist, her hips, the side of her thigh through silk. “Think about me for once,” he told her, low and raw. “Just me.”
“I am,” she said, and meant it. The party roared and fiddled its last few songs on the other side of the wall. It only made this feel more private. She got his tie loose with one hand and the top buttons of his shirt with the other. He swore fondly when she tugged the edge of his undershirt to get at his skin and the heat of him. He kissed the corner of her mouth, the line of her throat, the delicate notch where pulse met collarbone, territory he knew as well as any alley, until she caught his hair to keep from sliding right down the door.
The room narrowed to breath and the squeak of boards and the low, helpless sound she made against his shoulder when he lifted her. Reckless, yes. She tasted it like spice on the back of her tongue. But it wasn’t careless. He looked at her once, really looked, his pupils blown, and when she gave the smallest nod, the last of the week’s distance fell out of him. After that there wasn’t much to say. He set a rhythm that was all hunger and apology at once. She met him with a fierceness that surprised them both, nails in his shoulders, cheek to his temple, whispering his name. Somewhere outside, a cheer went up for a tune change. Inside, time broke apart into little bright pieces and scattered.
When it ebbed, she sagged back against the door and laughed a little, one hand over her mouth, the other locked at his arm as if the room might tip without him. Muggs kissed the inside of that wrist, the heel of her palm, and then her mouth again, gentler, as if returning something he’d borrowed.
“Don’t ever starve me like that again,” he murmured, breath warm. “I forget how to be civil.”
“You,” she said, eyes still unfocused and smiling as she tried to pull the hooks of her bodice back within reach, “were never civil.”
He took her hands down and did the hooks himself, careful for a pugilist, his mouth gone softer than his reputation. “For you I try.”
She smoothed his shirt and retied the tie she’d wrecked, up on her toes to square the knot, the tip of her tongue showing for concentration. He watched her like a starving man, because he couldn’t help himself, stole one last kiss while her fingers were still tucked under his collar.
“See? Back in five,” he said against her cheek, already straightening his coat.
“Fifteen,” she corrected, and shoved him in the chest when he grinned. He caught her hand and kissed the knuckles, then slipped out into the roaring corridor with her perfume ghosting his lapel, holding her hand tightly.
Meanwhile, Spot found Kate where the stairwell turned and let in a thin seam of March night. The noise from below was a muffled sea. The gas sconce hissed. Kate had her hands braced on the rail, head down as if the city might be steadier if she looked at it sideways.
He didn’t try a joke, not at first. He came and took the step below hers so their eyes were level. “Kate.”
Her mouth twitched the way it did when she was about to say something scathing to keep from saying something true. Then the fight fell out of her shoulders, and she tipped her head until it touched his. “My name has become a…problem,” she said, the word coming odd and tight. “Colm Tracey thinks it’s his to claim.”
He didn’t flinch. “Colm can think whatever he likes. He can think he owns New York, too.”
She huffed, almost a laugh, and then her breath shivered. “I don’t know who I am, Tom,” she said, the honesty of it startling them both. “It’s absurd. A name is a word and yet, everything feels like it’s breaking from under me. The floor's made of glass.”
He lifted a hand and cupped her jaw, thumb against the edge of her cheekbone, grounding and unhurried. “All right,” he said, so simple it might have been nothing and felt like everything. “Take mine.”
She blinked. “Your—what?”
“My word for you,” he said, and it came out before he could pretty it, thank God. “I love you, Kate.”
The stairwell held still. The world did not end. The sconce continued to hiss. Someone downstairs murdered the end of a reel. And Kate made a small, wrecked sound and covered her mouth with her fingers. He thought for a second he’d botched it, too late, too plain, and then she was against him, arms hard about his ribs, face tucked under his chin like she meant never to leave that exact place.
“Don’t say it because you think I’ll break,” she warned into his shirt, voice shaking, “Don’t—”
“I say it because I can’t help it,” he told her. “Because I see you and I want to be the wall that doesn’t move when the floor does. Because nothing Colm names you changes what you are to me.”
She tipped back to look at him, green eyes wet and furious at being wet. “And what is that?”
“Mine,” he said, not as a claim so much as a vow. “And I’m yours, whether you want the trouble or not.”
Her lips trembled. She kissed him like a promise, like a question, like a hand reached toward the surface from deep water. He answered each without hurry. The kiss was slow and certain, the kind that steadies rather than scatters. When it deepened it did so on her breath, not his insistence. He held the back of her head and her spine lengthened under his palm and the night came in colder and still she was warmer.
“Come on,” he said at last, when her shiver wasn’t only relief. “Five minutes someplace with a door, where we can finally be alone. I’ll keep my hands like a gentleman and you can breathe where no one watches.”
She sniffed and laughed at once. “You have never been a gentleman.”
“I can fake it for five minutes.”
They found a little sitting-room up the next flight with a threadbare settee and a cracked print of Glenariff on the wall. He shut the door with his heel and she took his lapels and didn’t let go, forehead to his. He unlaced nothing. He only set his hands flat at her back and let her lean until the tremor left her. When she kissed him again, it was unhurried, an exhale. When he kissed her jaw and the hollow below her ear, she made that soft startled noise he missed.
“I love you,” he said into that warm place, because now that he’d said it once he found he liked the feel of it out loud, “I’ll say it again when you hate me for something stupid, and when you don’t, and when you need reminding, and when you don’t.”
“You’ll hate me for something first,” she said, but she was smiling, and the ache at the corners of her eyes had eased.
“Never,” he said with a shake of his head. "Especially not tonight."
They lay a little while along the settee, her back tucked to his chest, his coat thrown over both of them like a poor man’s blanket, listening to the party through the floorboards and the steadier sound of each other’s breathing. His hand found hers and threaded their fingers. Her thumb rubbed the little scar along his knuckle he always forgot he had. The sconce outside flared, the music swelled, someone led the remaining guests into a drinking song, and the world went on.
“Ready to go?” he asked at last, mouth at her hair.
“No,” she said, truthfully. Then, “Yes. With you.”
He kissed the nape of her neck once more and stood, shrugging back into his jacket, and she laced her bodice the last half-inch and wiped her eyes and pinched her cheeks as if that might put the color back. At the door he touched her chin with two fingers, and she kissed those fingers and made a brave face.
“Back into the lion’s mouth,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “We know all the lions.” And together they took the stairs back down into the heat and roar, with her steadier, and him unmistakably altered by the relief of having finally said the thing that had been making him stupid for months.
The Banshee had thinned to its last stubborn holdouts. Chairs tipped back on two legs, tankards abandoned on windowsills, the floor sticky with porter. A fiddler was still sawing away in the corner, more for himself than anyone listening.
Outside, March had turned sharp again. Breath smoked white as the lot of them spilled onto Tenth Avenue in ones and twos, voices ragged from laughing, singing, and swearing over the din. Tide swung Claudia’s hand like he’d never let go of it. Cohen was baiting Kennedy about who’d danced worst, and No Name staggered along with Lion at his elbow, the pair of them still loud as brass.
“Two o’clock,” Grim muttered, snapping open his pocket watch before tucking it away again. “And nobody dead. Miracles happen.”
Julia fell into step at the curb, coat pulled close, hair mussed in a way no comb could quite account for, her walk just a shade unsteady. She was flushed, eyes too bright, but when Muggs slung his arm around her waist she didn’t shake him off. If anything, she leaned into it, smirking as though she dared anyone to comment.
On the far side, Kate came through the doorway with Spot a step behind. Her cheeks were pink from more than the cold, and her eyes shone in that quiet, dangerous way that made her look older, softer, changed. For once she had nothing to say, no jab, no sharp word. Just a little half-smile that slipped and returned, slipped and returned.
Julia caught sight of her across the cluster and in spite of everything, lifted her brows in the faintest of conspiracies. Kate, normally quick with a retort, only dropped her gaze and let the corner of her mouth tug up, betraying nothing but glow.
“Well,” Julia said at last, clearing her throat, “if anyone isn’t ready to turn in, my place is open. There’s still whiskey in the cupboard.”
That set off another round of jeers and agreements, with No Name announcing that he wasn’t done yet, Cohen swearing he’d drink her kitchen dry, Kennedy rolling his eyes but following anyway. Even Grim cracked half a grin.
They set off down the slick street together, a crooked parade of the battered and beloved, voices echoing against the tenements. Julia’s arm brushed Kate’s for a moment as they walked side by side, one marked by the heat of a tryst, the other still trembling with the shock of being loved. They didn’t speak, but for once, they didn’t need to.
The streets were half-asleep at that hour, the lamps burning low, puddles of gaslight stretching across the slick cobbles. Spot and Muggs strode ahead with the rest of the boys, laughter bouncing off the tenement facades, No Name's slurred voice rising above the lot.
Behind them, Julia and Kate walked side by side, their breaths visible in the cold. For a long moment they said nothing. Then Julia, hair loose around her temples and coat drawn tight, let out a small laugh.
“You’re staring,” she said.
Kate, cheeks still bright, shook her head. “I wasn’t.”
“You were. Wondering why I look like I’ve been wrestling a bear.” Julia buried her face in her hands to hide the blush, tired but sly. “I’ll save you the guessing.”
Kate’s eyes widened, scandal mixing with amusement. “Julia—”
Julia only lifted a brow. “What else d’you expect me to do with him? He looked so... And I—” she glanced down, lowering her voice, “—I’ll be walking funny tomorrow, no thanks to your...brother. Oh God, Katherine, that's awful.”
Kate gasped, then burst into a quiet, pained laugh, covering her mouth with her gloved hand. “Lord above. I'm not ready to hear that.”
“Don’t ‘Lord above’ me,” Julia shot back, though her cheeks were pinker than the wind made them. “You’ve the same look on you. So tell me what you and Conlon were about, hiding off.”
Kate hesitated, then her smile softened into something quieter, almost shy. “He said it.”
“Said what?”
“That he loves me.” The words came out hushed, like they might vanish if spoken too loud. “He meant it, too.”
Julia’s sharp features gentled. “And what did you say?”
Kate’s throat bobbed, her lips curving into that half-smile again. “Nothing. Not yet. But—I can't stop smiling.”
They walked a few paces in silence, boots scuffing the cobbles, the men’s voices carrying ahead. Julia nudged Kate’s arm with her own.
“Well. There we are then. You glowing, me wrecked.” She gave a breathless laugh. “Between the two of us, we’ve had a hell of a night.”
Kate laughed too, and for once the sound wasn’t strained.
By the time they reached Julia’s stoop, Spot was already banging on the banister for Cohen and Muggs to stop singing bawdy verses so loudly, and Kennedy was corralling No Name toward the door. Julia turned the key, pushing it open to the familiar scent of bay rum and bread still lingering from supper.
“Come in, all of you,” she called, her voice rough but warm. “There’s whiskey enough for another round. And after a dry night like this, God knows we’ll need it.”
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Anna_W on Chapter 1 Wed 18 May 2022 04:57AM UTC
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Anna_W on Chapter 4 Sun 12 Jun 2022 10:43PM UTC
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Anna_W on Chapter 6 Thu 07 Jul 2022 07:47PM UTC
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Anna_W on Chapter 6 Sat 09 Jul 2022 08:03PM UTC
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Anna_W on Chapter 6 Mon 11 Jul 2022 09:02PM UTC
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Anna_W on Chapter 6 Tue 12 Jul 2022 11:34PM UTC
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Anna_W on Chapter 7 Mon 22 Aug 2022 08:44PM UTC
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Anna_W on Chapter 7 Tue 23 Aug 2022 02:27AM UTC
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Anna_W on Chapter 7 Tue 23 Aug 2022 07:04AM UTC
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Anna_W on Chapter 7 Tue 23 Aug 2022 08:43PM UTC
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Anna_W on Chapter 7 Wed 24 Aug 2022 04:04AM UTC
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