Page 5

“Thank you.” She raised her hands, fingers ticking off her points. “Today, you wired money to a landlord to secure a lease on an apartment.”

“Yes,” Tom replied. He had stolen the whiskey back and was keeping it aloft out of Bridgers’ reach.

“This apartment is in Minnesota and also includes a store, which you have no idea what to do with.”

“We have an idea,” Bridgers protested. “We’ll sell things.”

Maggie sucked her cheek between her teeth and counted to ten. “What things?”

“My God, woman!” Bridgers shot up from the sofa. “Will your nagging never cease!”

Tom patted his companion’s hip. “He hasn’t gotten his nap in today.”

“I can’t handle anymore of this. I’m retiring.” Bridgers spun on his heel. “Good night.” He stomped from the room, the door to his and Tom’s bedroom clicking behind him.

“When do you think he’ll realize it’s four in the afternoon?” Tom asked.

Real estate moved surprisingly quickly. The trip to St. Cloud only took a few hours by train, but it had been an interesting challenge to fit all their belongings into the allotted number of trunks. They could not afford to incur additional charges. Fortunately, Maggie had learned early on to avoid attaching emotions to objects, and since the Madison rooms had come furnished they wouldn’t have been able to take most of their furniture, anyway. She did, however, mourn that sofa: it had an indentation precisely the shape of Tom’s bottom that she had snuggled into regularly.

The train whistled shrilly, announcing their arrival at the St. Cloud station. From here, Tom assured her, they would be able to obtain a hack to their destination.

Maggie was, to a point, used to an untethered existence. Over the course of her time with the boys, she had grown accustomed to flitting from place to place, resisting the urge to put down roots. It was the nature of the beast, she assured herself, and the reason she felt such resistance to this arrival, this anchoring. She spent the carriage ride—unwieldy, bumpy thing—clutching Tom’s hand, staring out the window, her heart racing and lungs incapable of drawing enough air. The view was rather bleak; smoke from factories filled the sky, blotting out the sun. Maggie tried to redirect her thoughts, which were verging on hysterical: a new home, a new state, a new life. She had been lying to the faces of innocent people for so long that she doubted her ability to do anything else.

In all honesty, Papa, fuck you. This was mostly his fault, in a roundabout way. What was it like to have a loving, present father? Unsurprisingly, Theodore’s face sprang to her mind: a sad, kind man, worried over his little daughter. He intruded on her thoughts from time to time, his wary countenance seeming to haunt her.

“Remember Tallahassee?” Bridgers said, breaking the silence. Tom let out a sharp laugh, and Maggie groaned.

“Of course,” she said. “Who could forget?”

Bridgers was laughing now, leaning on Tom. “So much for our grand tour of the country.”

Tallahassee had been their attempt at breaking out of the Midwest. Years ago, when they were still refining their act, Tom had taken to selling a cure-all tonic that the residents of northern Florida had quickly figured out was, in fact, watered-down whiskey and vegetable dye. It would be an exaggeration to say they were run out of town, but Maggie recalled a lot of yelling.

“Memories,” she sighed, “of our stupidity.”

“This time we won’t be stupid,” Bridgers said, grinning. “We’ll be rich beyond your wildest dreams, Mags.”

Maggie rolled her eyes.

The topic of what wares they intended to peddle had become verboten. Any time she inquired as to their latest idea (both Tom and Bridgers made it very clear that they resented her use of the term scheme), she was brushed off with increasing hostility. Idly, she buried the suspicion that she would be solely responsible for the family’s income.

Tom gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Here we are, Maggie.” She looked out the opposite window, following his gaze. Dull grey brick filled her vision, and a sinking sensation weighed on her chest. Grey brick was so … ominous.

Carefully, she slid out the door and took in the building before her as Bridgers struggled to relieve the carriage of their luggage.

A modest two-story, the structure looked a bit worse for the wear but sturdy enough. The first level boasted two enormous windows, almost floor to ceiling, with faded lettering painted on them in elaborate script: Jensen & Porter’s Photography Studio. She turned to the boys, who were paying the cabbie. “It was a photography studio?”

“I told you that,” Tom said, jutting his chin towards the window. “Come, we’ll have the tour.” He withdrew a key from his waistcoat as he approached the front door.

“Am I supposed to carry all this in by myself?” Bridgers called indignantly from behind the pile of luggage. Sighing, Maggie strode over and grabbed two of her valises, turning on her heel and hurrying back to the door. Tom swung it open dramatically, and he and Maggie peered inside.

The main room was cavernous, with a shabby desk in the center and no chair in sight. The walls were papered in a faded green with some sort of posy painted on them, reflecting the cheerful light beaming in from the windows. She stepped in, ignoring the pained creak of the floorboards, and walked to the back of the room where a door stood ajar. It was darker in here, shielded from the windows, and she squinted to make out a small chair and scattered pieces of what she assumed was photography equipment—burned-out bulbs, glass plates. Snubbed-out candles lined the floor.

“Lots of gas lamps.” Bridgers’ voice was directly behind her, and Maggie jumped. “What?” he asked, all innocence.

She slapped his arm. “You scared me! And of course there’s lots of gas lamps, photographs need light.” She withdrew from the room. Several others similar to it lined this hallway, small alcoves with thick curtains that could be drawn shut to act as doors. “What do you suppose these were used for?”

Bridgers lifted one shoulder. “Presumably for portraits or something similar. I fear I know very little of photography, only that it’s expensive and dull.”