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“You all right?” he asks into her neck. “You looked terrified of me.” His words vibrate through her.

She nods, her belly clenching involuntarily. There’s still fear somewhere deep inside her, but it’s suppressed by something else. Desire. And it’s spreading like the burning whiskey inside her. Rising to the surface, about to spill and pull her under. She hasn’t felt it for so long, she’s forgotten what it’s like—the building pressure, the desperation for its release. She was certain she had nothing left in her to give, nothing left to feel, but Finn managed to awaken it. And so she reaches out, finds his shoulders, presses against him, and tilts her face up.

Finn follows her movement, exhales sharply, and lowers his face. His palm edges to her head, cradling it.

“I’m ready to go,” Grace says from the hallway. Her voice is awkward. Subdued.

Jo drops her hands and pulls away from Finn.

Sally

Ada’s Dollhouse is located in the Dearborn district. The street is lifeless at this hour, framed by the dark brick and stone buildings. A few vacant lots punctuate the desolation. The cable car lines run through the middle of the street, but no cable cars pass. Not a single person in sight. Not even a hansom. A drugstore on one of the corners is closed, shutters firmly pulled down.

The three of them stop in front of the tall building, and Jo takes it all in. The stone exterior is the color of the stormy sky, with hooded windows. There is a barely noticeable swish of the curtains when Finn runs up the stairs to the front door. The pale face of a girl in the upper window, palms flat against the glass, lips moving as if the girl is describing what she sees to someone invisible behind her. Another face, round as the moon, appears next to the girl. The girls are young. Their youth is covered with rouge and kohl, but beneath it all, Jo catches glimpses of the lost children they once were.

Jo and Grace go up the stairs. Finn knocks just once, and the door flies open. The stench of stale food and alcohol invades their nostrils as soon as they step inside. A short and stocky woman nods at Finn; her face is contrite, her lips pinched. “You the photographer?” Her brown eyes are fixed on Jo. Her gaze slides to Grace, and a deep frown appears between her eyebrows. “Why is she here, Finn?”

“Grace’s my assistant,” Jo says. “She’ll be helping me with this job.”

“The hell she’ll be,” the woman barks and points her long finger at Grace. “She brings trouble. Always. Ira ordered not to let her in. She’s done enough.”

Grace steps around Jo. “Ada, I’m sorry I said the things I said the other day. I was worried about Sally.”

“Worried? And how did that work out for her?” A tired edge creeps into the woman’s voice. “Your family . . .” She looks at Finn and doesn’t finish her sentence.

“Ada, please let me see Sally one last time.” Grace inches forward, breathing hard, her voice shaking. “She’d want me here.”

Skewering the girl with a stare, Ada chews on her lower lip. The light that cuts through the clouds illuminates the soft planes of her face, dancing off the disheveled brown hair that she didn’t bother to brush before coming down to welcome them into her brothel. Purple shadows weigh heavily beneath her eyes. She’s wearing a long black nightgown and only one stocking. No shoes. “Ira doesn’t want you here.”

“Ira doesn’t need to know,” Finn interjects. “Ada, let them in. I’ll take care of Ira.”

“You better.” It sounds like a warning, but Ada steps aside, and they enter the house.

A multilayered stench assaults Jo like an unexpected dust storm. A nauseating odor of greasy, undercooked bacon mixes with fumes of a cheap perfume and the reek of stale clothes. And beneath it all, Jo recognizes the hint of musk that lingers on Grace’s skin. The carpet in the hallway is covered with traces of tobacco and something sticky, something that looks like jam.

Madame Ada takes them to the second floor. As Jo ascends the stairs, she tries to focus on her breathing, her careful steps, and not the growing feeling of calamity and definitely not the shadows that are swirling on the landing. She closes her eyes for a second, pauses. The shadows are not real. Perhaps it’s the lack of the gaslight on the landing. Strained whispers cut through her thoughts and make Jo trip over her own feet. The two girls from the windows appear on the landing.

“She’s here. The photographer’s here,” one of the girls says over her shoulder. She has a nervous and yet surprised look to her, as if she expected Jo to be someone else entirely. “And Grace,” the girl adds.

Jo tries to smile, but her lips refuse to move. The girl who just spoke studies the Kodak in Jo’s hands, and her eyes get brighter and shinier the longer she looks. Jo wants to say something warm and reassuring, but the girl is already turning away, and a second later she’s gone.

“Sally’s right here,” Ada says and opens the door. “We made sure she looks presentable. The girls pitched in for a photograph. The photo is for them.”

Grace doesn’t move. She is looking at the door, squinting at something only she can see. A hand is clamped over her mouth.

“Grace.” Jo puts her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

The girl nods, a lock of hair slipping onto her forehead. Together they walk through the door.

Sally’s room is surprisingly spacious. Ribbons of daylight reach through the gaps in shutters, highlighting the brown wood of the dresser, the bright-pink roses on the yellow wallpaper. A comb is thrown casually on the corner table. Red stockings and a garter belt hang on the chair.

The girl on the bed is striking. Her deep-black hair is spread on the pillow like a halo, framing her delicate face. She is dressed in a black silk gown. A white necktie with delicate black embroidery is wrapped around her pale neck. The same heavy, musky scent surrounds the bed, lingers in the pillows, in the sheets. There is an implied intimacy in the way Sally’s body is dressed: a sheer gown, her locks brushed and arranged with some odd purpose, a bright rouge on her cheeks. As if she’s still waiting for customers. As if she’s still being placed on display. But all Jo can see is a beautiful young girl turned into the ruins of a person she used to be. Her skin has a gray tint to it. Her hair is dull. Her fingernails are turning blue, as the rot soon will set in.

Josephine, you’re here. How kind of you.

The shadows thicken in the corners of the room. The air is charged with malevolence and something sharp and extremely repugnant. Sadness swells. Jo’s stomach hardens. Death hangs heavy in the air. Like a poisonous gas in the swamp. A light movement to the left, and Jo whips her head to look, but there’s no one in the room but her and Grace and the dead girl.

Tell Grace I’m sorry. Tell her how much I miss her.