“Yeah, Ford mentioned that.” Noah cracks a smile, and I release my shoulders from their current place around my ears. “It’s tomorrow night, at your dad’s new place?”
“Mmmmhm” is all I can manage, because his T-shirt is just a stitch too tight across his shoulders. He’s more muscular than I thought. “It’s warm in here today, right?”
“Not really. The AC is working pretty hard.” He looks at me in concern. “Are you feeling okay?” No, no, I’m not, because now I can’t stop staring at Noah’s hands as his fingers fold one of the discarded magazine pages over and over. He follows my gaze. “Sorry, did you need this?”
“No, people just keep leaving them there.” I shake my head and pull my eyes away from his hands. What the hell is wrong with me? “Izzy is making me have a gathering at Dad’s tomorrow,” I admit. “I thought maybe you’d like to come?”
“That sounds cool, thanks. So, your dad’s not back yet?”
“No, the storm has cleared a bit, but transport is still down. He’s due back in less than a week anyway. They were only going for ten days.” It helps that last night the police officially announced they had charged the unhoused man for Helen’s murder, which saves my mom from coming back, too. Something about the arrest doesn’t sit right with me, though. In my opinion, it wasn’t a crime of opportunity, which is how the police have played it to the media, but I didn’t say anything to my parents since they were agreeing for once. “I think Izzy wants to start around eight.”
“Oh, I forgot.” Noah looks up from the piece of paper. “I’m supposed to meet some friends tomorrow. Sorry, Fliss. I could pop by later, maybe?”
“Bring them if you want?” I say, the words coming out of my mouth as I question why I’m willingly inviting more people to a gathering I don’t want to have. Do I want Noah to be there that much? I look up to see the edges of his eyes crinkle and decideIdo.
“Okay, cool, that could work,” he says, finishing what he was doing and handing me the folded-up piece of paper. “I have to go and develop some more prints, but I’ll see you at lunch?”
“See you later.” I watch Noah walk back to the darkroom before glancing down at the object in my hand.
It’s a small but perfect origami flower that he made while he was standing here. A small but perfect origami flower that he made forme.
TWENTY-ONE
Frances
New York City, July10, 1911
Frances looked at Lorenz withtrepidation. He was handsome, yes, but in a rugged, almost rough way, especially around the eyes. There was something dark about them, and he frightened her a little. He had a consumptive look about him, too—she recognized it from her brothers. They’d all had the disease, but it had spared her. Mama said it was because she was destined for greatness, that she needed to get out of South Carolina and make her fortune as a singer in New York City. Well, she’d been here for a month now and was already on her last few pennies when that vagabond had stolen her pocketbook and ran away, less than an hour ago.
Frances sniffed the drink that had been placed in front of her by the man who had tried to help her find the thief. Lorenz was shuffling an oversized deck of cards. The vapors from the drink burned her eyes, blurring her vision.
“What would I have to do?” she asked before sipping the brandy carefully.
The liquid set her taste buds alight and burned a trail of fire down her throat, so furious that she spluttered. Frances had never tasted hard liquor before. She placed the glass on the scarred wooden table and cleared her throat as he continued shuffling.
“That is the wonderful thing—you need to do nothing! You would accompany me to a salon and meet the artists, then spend an hour or two sitting in the center of the room while they sketch you from different angles. It is called life drawing.”
“Oh.” Frances sipped the brandy again, finding it more palatable this time. “And you would pay me for that?”
“Not I,” Lorenz said, smiling at her. She shrank back into her chair, finding the expression wolfish, unsettling. “The artist who runs the salon would pay you. One or two hours of work should secure your lodgings for the next few nights.”
“Then I suppose I must,” Frances sighed, patting the wave at the front of her hair. She had somewhere to stay tonight, but only because she had paid the daily fee before she’d left that morning. All she had left were her homemade clothes, and she didn’t think they’d fetch anything. She sipped the drink again, for courage this time, and watched Lorenz continue shuffling. “Are you a gambling man?” she asked him.
“Oh, no!” He let out a throaty laugh that was almost endearing, and Frances allowed herself to relax a little. “These are tarot cards. Have you ever seen them?” He spread the deck onto the table, face down. They were roughly twice the size of the cards she’d seen her daddy play poker with, and they were worn andsoft at the edges. The pattern was the same on the back of each card, a repeating print of blue and white irises. “Would you like to choose one?”
“What’s the game?”
“It’s not really a game. Some people believe that these cards can tell your fortune.”
“Witchcraft,” Frances hissed, hearing her mother’s voice as she said the word. “Fortune-telling is not Christian. It’s unnatural.”
“Possibly.” Lorenz shrugged, running a gentle hand over the cards, mesmerized. “There were many strange things in the Bible, no? Miracles, water into wine. I grew up Roman Catholic myself, and tarocchi was always used in my home. My grandmother specialized in reading people’s fortunes.”
“She did?” Frances said, watching as his hands went back and forth, hovering over the cards. She looked at one that was sticking out a little and almost felt drawn to it, despite its being identical to all the others. Her mother was probably crossing herself right this second, even five states away. Her fingers reached across the table of their own accord.
“You like this one?” Lorenz asked, pressing a finger on the card. Frances nodded before she could stop herself and took a gulp of brandy. He slid out the card and flipped it over. “Strength,” he said, placing it in front of her. “A good card for you, Frances.”
“Strength,” she repeated, allowing her fingertips to touch the artwork. Surely she wouldn’t go to hell for looking at a pretty card? Mama would say differently, but Mama wasn’t here. And Frances was strong, always had been. That was why she’d survived this long. She studied the figure on the card—a tall, fine-lookingwoman draped in a white gown and tending to a lion. A floral crown sat atop her head, a curious figure eight floating above it. “It’s beautiful.”