Something inside Rose’s chest swelled and bloomed. “That sounds like exactly what I need.”
“She can’t stay here.” Ben stormed down the stairs with a force he would have chided others for, grateful he’d reinforced the banister as he pulled hard enough to dislodge it from the wall. Rose was like the mermaid from his mother’s story book, seeking adventure that would end in disaster.
The human world seemed so much wider than her own. There was so much she wanted to know about the “upper world,” which was what she said was the right name for the countries above the sea.
Ben had always loved that story, as the desire to belong to a world where he was unwelcome struck uncomfortably close to his heart. But Brooklyn Heights was far from the Upper West Side, and her curiosity would only bring disorder to his ordered life.
“It’s really not your business,” Cass said from behind him, her long legs allowing her to keep pace in their descent. Together they skipped the broken stair, and Ben made yet another mental note to fix it before someone—who didn’t know about their “ghost” and its tendency to undo Ben’s work—got hurt.
“Itismy fucking business, because she’s going to be a problem.“ Ben slammed into his first-floor apartment and threw himself into a heavy leather chair, the one luxury he allowed himself to buy after he purchased the building. He slept in it for the first month he lived there, unable to afford a proper bed. He tugged the coin from his pocket and began flipping it back and forth.
“You’re being childish.” Cass sat across from him in the rocking chair he salvaged from an estate sale a few weeks prior, then replaced the rushing and painted to a gleaming black. “I’ve never seen you like this. Have you even exchanged a dozen words with the woman?”
He scoffed. “When have I exchanged a dozen words with anyone?”
“Very true, but beside the point.” Cass propped her elbows on her knees and leaned toward him. “You’re not giving her a chance.”
Ben pushed to his feet and crossed to the window, pushing it open. “She thought you were a servant. She thought I worked in the building.”
Cass raised a brow. “Wait, youworkhere? I had no idea.”
Ben growled and Cass smirked. “Yes, she’s a bit of a mess, but we all were when we got here. Abby trusts her, and I believe her when she says she needs a change. Isn’t that what 138 is about?”
“She wants a change from going to balls and holding tea parties, not a husband who hits her.”
Cass leaned back in her seat and folded her hands over her lap. “Since when have you decided which women are worthy of help?”
Ben pursed his lips and looked towards the window, watched the people passing by and going about their lives. He had arrived in Brooklyn nearly four years ago, a shell of a man with full pockets and an empty heart. When he saw the condemned structure on Willow Street, its wide windows like sad eyes begging him for help, he had felt a flare of purpose again. A dream was born that day, and he spent every hour of his free time creating dreams for others who lacked the agency to do so themselves.
The neighborhood housed the discards of society, the people cast off from the upper echelons. Those whose race or romantic preferences ran against the grain of Midtown mingled with prostitutes and gang runners. People who looked like Ben and Cass or loved like Abby had a home at 138 Willow and took their place in the larger tapestry of Brooklyn.
“She doesn’t need the type of help we can offer,” Ben said. Everyone belonged in Brooklyn Heights, but this woman—Rose—didnot. Everything about her screamedsuperior, high class in a way having nothing to do with address or wealth. She gleamed like a lantern, and her light would only be extinguished here in the slums. Or it would burn them to the ground.
A low feline growl interrupted his circling thoughts, and Ben grumbled. “Come on, Wig. Get in here if you expect me to feed you.”
The cat prowled through the gap in the window and cast its yellow gaze over the room as though it owned the place.
Cass’s nostrils flared. “I can’t believe you still take care of that filthy thing.”
Ben gave a begrudging scratch in the tufted fur that stood tall between Wig’s ears, the only spot of white on the otherwise black cat, hence its name. “If I don’t, he scratches at my window and howls. I’ll never sleep.”
“You didn’t need to make him abed, though.”
He shot her a glare. “We’re not talking about my cat.”
“So you’re admitting he’s your cat now?”
“I’m not admitting anything.”
Cass sat back with a satisfied smirk. “Let the Englishwoman stay here. Some perspective would be good for her.” Cass released a low laugh. “God knows she could get her hands dirty.”
“You’re not thrilled to have her here either. What if she brings Abby’s family here? If they found her—”
“I know what would happen.” Cass’s words cleaved the air like a blade. “Abby must believe in her if she’s willing to take the risk.”
“Abby hasn’t been full of the best ideas in the past.”
Cass chuckled. “Remember when she made the white suit for you for the rally—”
