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Finn’s face reddens, and he takes another step, closing the short distance between them. A wave of tobacco brushes across her face. “Did you forget? About Millie?” The look he gives her is cutting. “You took the money, and you just vanished. Ira was going to send someone else instead of me to retrieve the pictures. Or the money. He doesn’t care anymore.” He runs his hand through his hair. There are lines in the corner of his eyes. “Do you understand? What he can do to you?”

Her hands start to shake. The memory of the man in the room flashes through her mind. “I know what he can do. I saw it. No need to remind me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He rubs his forehead, slowly yet forcefully, as if realizing his error. “The family’s in mourning. They need the photos, Jo, the only memory of Millie they have left.”

Jo straightens herself, her face burning, and she feels grateful for the grayness of the day, for the murkiness of her hallway. “I didn’t forget about Millie.” She cannot produce pictures out of thin air. Giving money back isn’t an option. “I went to bed as soon as we came back. I needed to rest. Surely, Ira and the family can understand that. I overslept.”

“Where are the pictures, Jo?” His tone is accusatory, as if Jo might have burned the pictures she promised she’d bring to the funeral.

“I’m working on it.”

“By the looks of you, you’re working on something else entirely.”

Shame replaces fear and claws at her. She should’ve combed her hair. Splashed water on her face. Changed her clothes. But taking care of yourself is hard when all you want is another hit of laudanum. Taking care of yourself requires effort, and she doesn’t have it in her anymore. “I need a bit more time. I’m almost done.” Her voice is weak. The words are wispy. She feels foolish because she’s lying, and Finn knows it. “I’ll bring Millie’s photos to the funeral as agreed.”

“The funeral was yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Jo whispers. He’s insane. Angry men lie. “It’s not possible,” she says. As if her words would force Finn to admit he’s just trying to frustrate her, and all is well, and she still has time. Her opium dreams last a few hours, not days. What’s happening to her?

His eyes tighten when he barks, “For heaven’s sake, what is wrong with you?”

“I must be ill. I have this horrible headache.” She feels smaller and smaller with every lie that slips off her lips. “I’m sorry I missed the funeral. Please tell Gertrude I’m very sorry. I’ll bring Millie’s photographs tonight. I just need a few hours to develop them.” Finn stands still, watching, not interrupting her and not speaking a word. She’s trying to hold on to reality, but her grasp is slipping, and she’s slipping with it. She wants to disappear, fall through the ground, and never resurface. “Please, give me time. A few hours. That’s all I need.” Her chest burns, a deep tight ache inside her body. Either from guilt or shame. Probably both.

A shadow crosses Finn’s face. “A few hours? I better stay, then. I promised Ira I’d come back with pictures.”

“There’s no need for you to stay. It’ll be hours before the photographs are fully developed. It’s a slow process.”

Finn brushes past her and steps inside the studio. He flings off his coat in a single, elegant movement. Throws it on the settee and turns around. “I’ll wait. In case you decide to take another long nap.” He looks around the room, and she wonders what he sees. It’s a small studio, but the windows are big, letting in the daylight. A huge, awkward Knickerbocker stand by the wall, her camera mounted on it. An old, upholstered settee and her desk, rags and pots of chemicals scattered on its wooden surface like debris from a shipwreck. An assortment of framed pictures on the wall by the camera. Some are hers. Those are portraits of toddlers with plump chins and fearful eyes, a banker’s family portrait done a few months ago. But most of the photographs were done by August.

“Where do you develop your pictures?” Finn turns to her.

She stands in the door, taking in every inch of his broad shoulders, his strong neck, and his still-clenched jaw. He’s elegantly handsome in his dark, impeccably pressed suit. She could make a nice portrait of him. “The darkroom is at the end of the hallway, by the kitchen. I’ll be there.”

“Jo.” Her name on his tongue is crisp, but his voice isn’t filled with thunder anymore. “You’re bleeding.” He points at her hand.

She looks down.

There are droplets of blood on the floor, and a couple on her bare feet. Something sharp is poking at her skin. She turns her hand and stares at the white rose. She’s gripping it so tightly the sharp, jagged thorns on its stem have cut her palm.

In the Dark, Dark Room

While washing off blood in a small basin, Jo eyes her opium vial. She can still hear Millie’s voice, urging her to find her murderer. She stops moving, listens: nothing but Finn’s heavy steps downstairs and the drum of the rain outside.

She dries her hands and studies the small cuts on her skin. Is the courtyard real? Has she somehow fallen into this alternative world, another reality? Is that even possible? Or did she take the rose from Millie during their photo session, bring it home and sleep with it in her hand? If she had to guess, she’d say it’s all in her head. It’s all the opium’s fault. But something inside her whispers otherwise, an annoying fly insisting on attention. She tries to swat it away, but just like a fly, the whisper avoids her slap and circles back.

Jo changes into a different dress, runs a comb through her curls, and ties a bright-yellow scarf around her hair. August loved this scarf. She got it in Paris at some street fair she’d stumbled upon by accident. She remembers how damp and pungent the air felt that morning by the Seine. Jo’s mood was gloomy, matching the grayness of the sky. She and August had had a fight that morning—nothing important, it seems, as she cannot remember it at all. She had walked along the river, turning back at some point and cutting through a narrow alleyway. That’s how she found the street fair. Later that day, when August saw the scarf and bent to kiss her cheek, whispering how much he appreciated the yellow against her skin, their fight faded to a distant echo, and the pressure she’d carried all morning lifted.

Jo appraises herself in the mirror. She looks more presentable now that she has sorted herself out. Good enough for her work in the darkroom. Good enough for the angry lad who waits for her downstairs. She squares her shoulders and walks with a purpose. Finn hears her footsteps and comes up to the bottom of the stairs. He’s less anxious. More relaxed. Maybe even relieved she didn’t disappear.

“My darkroom is in the back. By the kitchen. I’ll be there for the next few hours.” She nods at her studio. “Make yourself comfortable in there.”

Finn shakes his head, and a single strand falls on his forehead. He looks younger now, still not pleased with her but also more vulnerable. “I’ll be with you. In your workroom. I want to watch.”

Jo shakes her head. “You won’t be able to see much. I work in the dark. The space is called the darkroom for a reason.” She pauses thoughtfully. “It takes a long time to do what I do.”

He raises an eyebrow.

She shrugs. They don’t have time for a photography lesson. “Photographs must be developed in the dark. You can wait in the studio. If you get hungry, there are some eggs and bread in the kitchen. I have a bean soup on the stove. But it’s old. I don’t recommend eating it.”