3
402 HIGH STREET.
Molly stared up at the address, looped in intricate iron across the gate.
Overhead, the snow fell harder, night gnawing away the last of the daylight. Taking a deep breath, she approached.
The gate’s metal frame was cold and heavy in her hand as she pulled it open.
Statues flanked the path like corpses, their marble bodies twisted into unnatural shapes. Whoever lived here had particularly macabre taste.
A disfigured Hades leered at a cowering Persephone while Judith held Holofernes’s head aloft. Each detail of the bodies was carefully carved, the muscles tensed as if Judith might spring from her perch at any second. The folds of cloth on a maid’s death shroud were so delicate and lifelike they seemed to quiver in the wind.
Unlike most of the orphans, Molly had been educated in some of the classics by her father. His useless dreams of rising above their poor lot, at least, had given her that.
She stumbled over something soft.
Looking down, she saw a body lying faceup upon the ground.
And for a horrible minute, it was Kitty.
Kitty, lying there bloated and broken, pretty face rotting in the dirt.
Then a young man sat up, peeling himself from the snow. “Hello.”
She jumped back, alarmed.
“Sorry to frighten you.”
He didn’t look sorry. A grin spread across his face as he brushed snow from his broad shoulders, maneuvering gracefully to his feet. There was something delicately feline about the way he moved.
Lifting a lantern, he lit it, holding it up to her face. The night around them had bloomed to black.
“Why were you on the ground?” said Molly. She tried to keep her voice steady.
“Why are you covered in blood?” He ran the lantern over her body, its orange eye flickering.
Molly tried to pull Ma’s coat higher over her ruined dress’s collar.
“To answer your question,” said the boy, “it’s the best place to see stars.”
She looked at the snowy sky. “There aren’t any.”
“Exactly.” He sounded pleased.
She studied him. His shirt and pants were nondescript, as if made for blending into shadows. He might have been a gardener, if gardeners worked at night. There was one bit of color. The left shoelace of his boot had been replaced with a red ribbon, which caught the lantern’s light.
“Mother Superior said someone here sent for me,” Molly said.
“Yes. Your aunt’s been expecting you.”
Molly gave an ugly laugh. “Then perhaps my aunt would be good enough to let me in out of the snow.”
The boy nodded. “Of course. Only there’s something she wants you to do first.”
“What?” It was always something with people who had money. Nothing could ever be simple. They could have the world and beg for more.
“Wait here.” Leaving her standing there, the boy disappeared into the house.
Overhead, Molly saw the quick flip of a curtain upstairs and the outline of a face against the glow of a candle. Someone was watching from the window.
She lifted her face to watch back.
Whoever lived here wouldn’t get the benefit of her fear.
Around her, the strange statues seemed suddenly closer, as if they’d moved an arm or a leg when no one was looking. What sort of a person kept such horrors at her house?
The boy reappeared a moment later, a bundle under his arms.
“Put these on.” He thrust a dress at her.
Molly considered simply leaving, telling the boy where to shove the dress and letting her “aunt” pull it back out if she wanted it again.
But against her better judgment, she found herself admiring the cloth. It looked suspiciously like silk, the indigo blue as rich as midnight. Better yet, beneath the dress she saw a pair of what looked to be nearly new leather boots.
She glanced back up at the window, but the curtain was now closed.
The boy continued to hold the clothes out to her, like a man with a bone tempting a stray.
“Where am I to change?” She could always take the clothes and disappear. The damned fool was all but asking her to steal them.
“Here’s fine.” His mouth lifted into a grin.
She returned his smirk with an icy stare.
He sighed. “In there.” He motioned behind her, and Molly turned to see that a large carriage had pulled, as silent as a shadow, up to the iron gate. A driver in a top hat was perched outside on its box seat, and both his attire and the horses were a perfectly matched inky black.
She hesitated. “Why not in the house?”
The boy shrugged. “I’m only following orders.”
An aching throb in her nearly frozen feet decided for her. At least the carriage would be warm. Molly grabbed the clothes out of his hand. “Don’t you dare come in while I’m changing.”
He shot her a wink. “Only if you ask.”
She started down the drive toward the carriage, the snow clinging like powdered sugar to her feet as she tried to ignore the gauntlet of frozen stone bodies.
“Wait,” a voice said.
For a horrible second, she thought one of the statues had come to life, but then she turned and saw that it was the boy.
He held up the lantern. “What’s your name? Your aunt never told me.”
For the first time, she saw the other side of his face.
A scar looped across the space where his left eye should have been.
She looked swiftly away. “Molly. Molly Green.”
“Well, Molly Green, I can’t promise much, but I can guarantee you this . . .”
His mouth lifted into an unguarded smile that completely transformed his serious face into something almost handsome. “You are absolutely the prettiest thing I’ll be seeing tonight.”
And with a grim nod, he left her standing alone in the snow as he disappeared into the house, unsure if she’d just met a gentleman or a thief.
The carriage’s interior was completely dark, save for a small flickering kerosene lantern on the wall. For several seconds, Molly let herself simply relish being out of the snow, sinking against the luxurious velvet seats. Pins and needles began in her toes as circulation resumed and the blood brought them back to life. She could smell the melting snow as it trickled down her scalp, the scent like a wet dog. She had never been inside anything so fine in her life. Even before the orphanage, the farmhouse she’d lived in with her parents had been rough and crudely cobbled together, as sparse as a pauper’s coffin. Molly ran her hand in wonder over the seat. Every inch of the carriage was trimmed in newly polished brass, velvet, and the finest burl wood.
She slipped off her filthy orphan’s dress with a shiver, hissing as her palm brushed against the rough cotton. In the dark, her naked skin glowed against the lantern light. Holding up her pale arms, she thought of how they had looked against Kitty’s purpled corpse. How little there was to separate the living from the dead.
Shivering, she pulled the silk over her head.
Seconds later, she was dressed in the finest gown of her life. But, she realized belatedly, it was not one she’d ever want to steal. The skirts were as wide as the carriage door, and the gown hung off her, two sizes too big. The boots, at least, were a victory. They weren’t just leather but kidskin, and they melded to her feet like butter. There was no mirror, but Molly did the best she could to wipe away the dirt from her face and hands. By feel, she plaited her hair the way Kitty had shown her, taming her fiery red curls with a lick of spit. But even as she did it, she felt a wave of anger at having to skin herself like a plucked chicken before the woman inside would deign to see her.
Folding the old bloodstained dress, she left it on the seat.
Then, thinking better of it, she reached inside the pocket for the stolen kitchen knife.
The door to the carriage flew open.
Molly swung around with the blade raised.
“Come now, even my aunt Iris gets dressed faster than that, and she’s near eighty.”
The boy climbed in and slammed the door closed, taking a seat across from her.
“Now, that’s an improvement.” He gave her newly dressed figure an appreciative glance. “Not sure about the knife, though. Doesn’t quite go with the gown.”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
The boy ignored her.
Leaning his head out the window, he gave a loud whistle, and the carriage bucked to life.
Molly lurched forward, and the boy caught her neatly in his arms.
This close, she could smell him. A rich, earthy scent like leather mixed with the clean pine of soap. He set her gently back down onto the horsehair bench.
“Now, if you wanted a hug, you need only ask.”
“Where the hell do you think you’re taking me?” She held up the blade again. She could stab him and jump out of the carriage, but she was sure to injure herself. Not to mention the dress. They were already moving at a frightening clip.
“Nowhere you’ll be needing that.” He nodded at the knife. “Your aunt wants you to run an errand is all. Got to work for your keep.”
She felt some of the tension leave her. Of course. Whoever had been peeking at her through the window wanted to declare her dominance, like a dog peeing in its new yard. Some spoiled rich woman using her power to move others about like a toy. The nuns had rulers; the wealthy had carriages.
Molly sank back against her seat in a huff.
The boy let out a maddening chuckle, spreading himself across the carriage like a lord. “By the way, I’m Tom.”
He held out his hand, and she ignored it.
She couldn’t figure him out. He was Irish, like her. She could tell that by the traces of brogue that poked through his words, like a sticker through rough cloth. His lanky frame looked as strong as a farm boy’s. And yet there was something soft about his face, a tenderness in his single eye. Across the other was the scar, its ropy flesh twining a violent path across an otherwise handsome brow.
Tom caught her staring and stared unabashedly back. This time, she did not look away. “What does my aunt want me to do?”
“Ah, nothing much. Just pick up a package.”
“A package? At this time of night?” Molly waited for him to elaborate, but he only looked out the window and began to whistle a tune.
Her brow furrowed. If her task was something as simple as running an errand, why all this fuss about changing gowns?
Without warning, Tom reached out across the carriage and grabbed her hand. He squeezed it tightly, and she winced.
“Listen to me, because I’ll only say this once. There are plenty of other jobs in the city. Take one of those.”
She had never held a man’s hand other than Da’s. Tom’s touch was hot, his dry skin painfully rough against her wound. He turned her hand over in surprise, studying the large cut on her palm. She yanked her fingers away.
“Ah, so it is a job, then.” She smirked. “My aunt—if that’s who she truly is—is my only family left in the world,” Molly said sweetly. “If she wants me to pick up a package for her, I will. I’m not too proud to run errands.”
It would be easier to escape from a bad situation if whoever was ordering her about trusted her.
The carriage bumped along beneath them. Molly wished that she could open one of the windows or light another lantern. She wanted air. Light. The damned thing felt like a confession box.
“If you’re choosing to go on with this, then there’s something you should know,” Tom said. The playfulness had disappeared entirely from his voice. Now it was as frosty as the snow-covered streets. “Your aunt’s not a woman to give second chances.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A warning. Don’t take this lightly.”
The hair on the back of her arms stood to attention. But before she could press him further, the carriage pulled to a stop. Looking out the window, Molly saw they were parked outside a grand downtown hotel.
Men and women bundled in heavy furs came and went from an entrance manned by two well-dressed porters.
She swallowed the lump that bloomed in her throat. For the first time that night, she felt afraid. She slipped the knife back into her pocket.
Tom smiled as he helped her out of the carriage. Pulling her close, he whispered in her ear, the words sending a chill up her spine.
“Good luck.”