I couldn’t understand why they’d decided to go ahead with the Society meeting other than the fact that they thought Mr. Carter would want it that way. I was only here myself because Lydia had begged me to attend. John wasn’t even in town, but had graciously allowed Tom to open the house for a meeting anyway. John had taken a train to Georgia with his father late last week saying something about needing to help him with his research, though I doubted John, who had no interest in medicine, could be of any assistance in whatever experiment Doctor Hopper was doing. Frank casually mentioned John had really gone away to distance himself from the tragedy, to take time to mourn his once friend in his own way. I couldn’t blame him, but I missed him terribly. I didn’t want to be here either.
I was sitting in the corner where we’d spotted Maude Adams on the first night, still trying to think up an idea for a new novel. I glanced at the first idea I’d written down. The immigration of my grandparents. Their story was a heroic, heartbreaking tale, and though their lives had greatly improved a few years after their arrival in the city, I didn’t know if I had the strength to live the calamity of their passage and early years as Americans. They’d fled to escape the Irish famine, leaving their parents and siblings behind. Losing two sons to disease on the ship over, they hadn’t been able to find work when they got here, forcing my father, his three siblings, and my grandparents to live with three other families in an apartment in the slums until Grandfather found a post with D.F. Tiemann Color Works, a position that eventually made them quite comfortable.
I closed my eyes in an attempt to recall anything striking I’d read as of late in the newspaper or magazines, trying to mute the roaring white noise of hundreds talking and laughing at once, and the eerie undercurrent of suspicion. Familiar faces I’d never met but had seen here often kept walking past me, circulating around to each artist’s display, their eyes bright with a strange optimism I didn’t understand given the melancholy of the day.
Marcus’s funeral had been that morning at Trinity Church. I hadn’t attended, but Franklin had said it was horrible. Mrs. Carter had apparently turned around after she was through receiving everyone, climbed up on the casket, reached in, and pulled Mr. Carter’s corpse from the pillow, hugging and shaking him while crying hysterically as though she could wake him up. Lydia had vomited and passed out next to Franklin and he’d had to carry her out of the church. Her behavior was concerning and foreign, entirely unlike the bubbly, poised woman I thought I knew.
I glanced over at Lydia now, stunned at the difference in her demeanor. John and I had promised we’d keep quiet about her episode in the sound—we’d told everyone save Franklin that she’d lost her diamond bracelet in the waves and that she and John had gone to retrieve it—but for someone so affected by Mr. Carter’s death a week ago, her loud laughter hours after she’d fainted at his funeral didn’t make sense. Then again, nothing about grief ever did. Lydia tipped her head back, dangling her hair in Franklin’s face as she laughed with a girl in front of her. Turning abruptly, she took Franklin’s face in her hands and leaned in to kiss him. Franklin shook his head, scowling at her brazen behavior. He’d been in a sour mood ever since John had left for Georgia without him. He’d asked to go along, needing to get away from our grief-stricken peers as much as John did, but Doctor Hopper had requested the trip remain father and son. I watched, waiting for Lydia to react to Frank’s dismissal, but she only grinned and scanned the crowd. She paused on me and began to walk over. I closed my notebook and waited, hoping she’d confide in me. I understood pain, the way sorrow rose and fell in waves. The only way I’d gotten through the loss of my father was to talk about him. So far, she had yet to utter a word about Mr. Carter to Frank or me, but I prayed she would. Perhaps speaking of him would alleviate the misplaced guilt she felt in his death. Something had to settle her mind. She couldn’t continue on this way.
Lydia exhaled and sat down on the damask ottoman beside me. Her lips were still turned up, but her eyes narrowed at Frank across the room. I could only see the top of his head—a crowd had gathered in front of us to hear a poem accompanied by a flutist.
“What do you suppose is wrong with him?” she asked without looking my way. I didn’t want to point out that her behavior was a bit forward for a public gathering, so I shrugged. “I love him. I do, but I can’t figure it out. Half of the time he acts as though he’s repulsed by me, not even letting me kiss him—”
“He’s not repulsed by you in the slightest.” I laughed and reached out to clutch her hand. “You’re beautiful, and he loves you, you know that. But you’re in public.” Lydia’s head whipped toward me.
“No, we’re not,” she said. Her shaking hands fingered an enormous ruby necklace hanging from her neck. “We’re among friends,” she stuttered. I looked into her eyes, finding them bloodshot and glassy. Was she intoxicated? I recalled the way she’d been at Mae’s wedding. She’d had too much wine then, too. “And it’s not like anyone knows what’s g-going on anyway.” She dropped the necklace and swept her hand across the display in front of us. The poem had concluded and most of the group had moved on to other presentations, but the few still gathered were an interesting sight. Some weren’t talking, staring blankly at the people around them, while others chattered and laughed with each other, unaware of anything amiss. The cellist who usually played with Lydia was sitting by herself in the corner opposite us, bow driving angrily across the strings.
“Are you all right? I can tell that you’ve had—” I started to tell her that imbibing too much liquor would do nothing to bring Mr. Carter back, but Lydia cut me off.
“Your brother and John are optimists. They’ve tried to cheer me, to cheer everyone, but right now, it’s impossible. My sorrow is too great.” The last word was forced from her mouth. She was right. Neither of them could stand watching people wither in grief without trying to cast light on whatever it was. That’s why John had left this time, I thought. He was too close, he couldn’t do it. But Frank could.
“Lydia . . .” My heart broke for her. Even though her grief for a man that wasn’t Frank made me defensive, I could feel her anguish. She’d left things undone with Mr. Carter, a man she’d clearly loved. I started to say that he’d known how much she cared for him, but I had no idea of the reality of their past beyond one story. “Frank’s only trying to liven you because he cares for you so deeply,” I said, choosing words I absolutely knew to be true. I glanced in the direction of my brother. He hadn’t mentioned the toll Lydia’s grief had taken on their relationship, but I knew it had to be weighing on him. “We all care for you.” I drew my arm around her shoulders.
“I know.” Turning toward me, the corners of her mouth twitched. I wondered what had suddenly convinced her. “He gave me this earlier and said h-he did.” She plucked the necklace from her chest.
“How? Where did he get that?” Disbelief floated over me. The ruby was at least five carats surrounded by tiny diamonds. Lydia lifted a shoulder. I reached for my notebook and pencil, flipping the blank pages to busy my hands. What was he doing? If he had to buy her jewelry to prove his love, he couldn’t afford her. I doubted he had enough money, even given his promotion, to afford our expenses, our dresses, his suits, the Benz, and Lydia’s necklace.
Suddenly, Lydia flung bolt upright. Her face drained as she stared up at the cherub mural and her lips grayed. I grabbed her shoulders and shook her, but she just made a low gurgling noise in her throat. My heart pounded. She needed a doctor, but Doctor Hopper wasn’t here.
“Lydia.” I dug my nails into her shoulders, but her head bobbed limply with each movement. She laughed and I jumped and let go. She rocked forward once with the absence of my hands and then jolted as though she’d woken from a dream where she’d been falling.
“H-he’s here,” she whispered.
“Who’s here?” I asked. My voice shook, wishing I could somehow get Frank’s attention or Tom’s, though I hadn’t seen him all night.
“Marcus.” Barely able to get his name out, her teeth began chattering and she rubbed her arms, staring blankly into the room.
“No, Lydia. He’s gone. In heaven, remember?” I tried to speak as calmly as possible despite the alarm roaring through me.
“I know that, but I feel him,” she spat, glaring at me. The base of my tailbone started to tingle and I straightened in my chair. As ridiculous as it was, I couldn’t help glancing about, hoping I wouldn’t see a ghost. “I killed him. Will killed him. He died of a broken heart.” A sob caught in her throat and I clutched her wrist.
“Listen to me,” I barked over the sorrowful wail of the cello and the clashing far-off notes of someone much less skilled than Alevia playing the piano. “He and Will both died of a heart ailment, not a broken heart.” That had been Doctor Hopper’s findings anyway, though the idea that both men had succumbed to the exact same condition was a bit peculiar. I’d voiced my doubt to Bess and Alevia while Franklin and Lydia were attending the funeral, but neither thought it odd in the slightest. Bess had shrugged, saying that Doctor Hopper was one of the most renowned physicians in Manhattan and that we should trust his expertise, while Alevia paled and ignored the conversation altogether, turning to Grandmother’s piano and playing “Abide with Me.” Mother had come in to sing along with Alevia’s playing, afterward giving me a hug and telling me that tragedies like this were simply difficult to understand. But, sitting here, listening to fragments of whispers around me, I knew I wasn’t the only one to question Mr. Carter’s fate. The most common story seemed to be that he’d died of an alcohol overdose, but that Doctor Hopper had been convinced to mask it in order to avoid a social scandal.
“You don’t know anything,” Lydia said. “He’s here!” She screeched the last word, stumbled on the long train of her black mourning dress, caught herself on the wall, and ran from me. Looking over her shoulder, her face was gripped with worry as if Mr. Carter was chasing her. I stood to go after her. I had no idea how to calm her, but I had to try. Out of nowhere, Franklin materialized in front of her, grabbing her in a hug. “I’m sorry,” Franklin mouthed to me over her shoulder. I watched Lydia’s head drop to Frank’s chest, and let out the breath I’d been holding. Grief and guilt had the ability to consume, to sink a person so far into the depths of melancholy that for a while, they could hardly function. I hated that Lydia had to endure such pain and hoped she could overcome it.
I forced my attention to my notebook and tried in vain to ignore everything else. I flipped the first page, finding two ideas scrawled on the second. Both came from some form of real life: a fabricated story about the Society and an undefined idea about what it was that made people go along with class expectations. The latter made me think of Charlie. I could still hear the desperation in his voice, feel his hands on my body, but the memory of it, of him, no longer made me miserable. I knew he loved me, and a part of me would always love him, but fate had drawn us separate paths. Without thinking, I lifted my eyes to the room to look for John before I remembered that he was absent. Though I was surrounded by people, it felt lonely without him.
“Hello, Virginia.” Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to find Edith. She smiled, though her eyes held the same sadness as everyone else’s.
“Edith! I’m so happy to see you.” I closed my notebook.
“I’m surprised you recalled my name. It’s been nearly a year since I last visited,” she said, running her gloved hands over the black lace overlay along her skirt.
“One doesn’t easily forget writing as profound as yours . . . or the discovery that there’s another woman out there chasing the same dream.” I glanced down at my peach dress as I extended my hand to her, suddenly embarrassed that I’d worn something so cheery. “I’m sorry about Mr. Carter,” I said. Her eyes were lined with bags. She shook her head.
“It’s quite a tragedy, though I can’t pretend that we were ever very close. I came in for the funeral at the request of my family. Marcus and I traveled in the same circle, of course, but I suppose most of my melancholy comes from thinking of his poor parents. I can’t imagine the heartache of losing both sons, especially to the same condition.” She pursed her lips, making her already youthful face appear even more childlike. “I know that I shouldn’t utter it, but I wonder about the rumors. Ever since William’s death, Marcus drank excessively. I can’t imagine Doctor Hopper agreeing to report dishonest findings, but it is a stroke of luck that Marcus didn’t pass on from drunkenness months ago.” Edith shook her head. “In any case, I didn’t come over to depress you with talk of death. How’s your writing coming along?” Her face brightened at the subject.
“Is it strange if I say that I’m unsure?” She shook her head.
“Of course not; I’m not sure either. I thought that I’d struck gold with the novella I asked you to read, but I got stuck, so I put it away . . . much to Teddy’s elation, who has made it clear that he’s enjoying a respite from my lamenting over characters’ fates and complaining about my lack of time to write. There is never enough with all of the social obligations.” She pursed her lips. Perhaps I wasn’t insane to think my work threatened by the potential commitments of the upper class. Clearly John wasn’t the only one with this problem. “I’m working on a home decorating guidebook right now, another hobby of mine.” Her eyes swept the tufted couch, damask ottoman, and gilded settee situated around us. “There is so much wasted space in this room,” she muttered, and then sighed. “If I keep on collecting hobbies, I fear that I’ll never accomplish anything. Do convince me to pursue something, Virginia, to choose one course and focus.” I laughed, but she reached out to grab my hand, her eyes serious.
“Surely you know my opinion. I haven’t read about Glennard in nearly a year and still think of that passage wondering what became of him,” I said. “Please continue his story.”
“Perhaps I shall,” she said, raising her chin. “And what are you working on? Surely something.” I told her about my rejected story, my struggle to begin a new novel, and about John giving The Web to Frederick Harvey. I’d barely spoken of it in case doing so would somehow doom it to failure. I hadn’t heard anything from him yet and it had been months. “Oh! This is wonderful news!” Edith pressed a hand to her heart. “I’m only jealous that Mr. Harvey is monopolizing it while I so desperately wish to read it.”
“I wish I could share it with you,” I replied. “I’ve made a few copies, though I’m afraid I didn’t bring them with me tonight. Are you sure that you can’t convince your husband to return to the city?”
“Perhaps someday. Teddy is so very fond of Newport. However, I’m planning to return early next year for an extended holiday while Teddy goes on a hunt. Perhaps we could plan to exchange our work then?”
“That’s a marvelous idea.” A year seemed like forever. “It will give me ample time to write something new.” Edith bounced up and down on the toes of her embroidered silk heels.
“I’m so very excited. I’m isolated in Newport and—”
“Darling, are you ready?” A man with slicked hair and a straight mustache appeared at Edith’s arm. She startled.
“Of course not. I’d live the whole of my life at this Fifth Avenue artists society if I could. But, if you’re asking if I’ll go home with you, I suppose I’ll agree.” Edith extended her hand to him without a glance his way, and leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Until next year, my dear.”
“It was lovely to see you again,” I said. She tipped her head at me and turned, arm in arm with her husband as they wove around a swarm of guests in the middle of the room acting out a play. I turned my attention back to my notebook determined to choose an idea and begin plotting the story, emboldened by the thought that I’d found a female writing companion.
“It’s all so sad, isn’t it?” Alevia whispered. She appeared from nowhere and I stared at her as she turned from me to survey the room. I was surprised to see her. I had no idea she was coming tonight. Ever since we lost Father, Alevia had been traumatized by the thought of death and tended to avoid the reality of it at all cost. Her fingers curled around her black horsehair mourning bracelet.
“When did you get here?” I asked. Alevia sat down on the same ottoman Lydia had occupied earlier.
“Perhaps thirty minutes ago. Mae sent me down with the Trents’ coach to retrieve you and Frank whenever you were ready to go. I only had to play for a few hours at the Vanderbilts’. I didn’t realize it was just a dinner. I went over to Mae and Henry’s after and then here.” Mae and Henry’s residence—the Trents’ guest home along the East River—was quaint and warm. I loved visiting them and was glad we were staying with them tonight rather than traveling all the way home.
“How are the Vanderbilts?” I asked. Alevia grimaced as someone began to play the piano, tripping over the notes so that making out the tune was impossible. A man with a loud bass voice started to introduce a story behind us.
“They were kind, as always,” she said, turning back to me. She laughed softly, tucking a stray black strand behind her ear. “Mrs. Vanderbilt kept going on about a tea luncheon she wanted to throw for a cousin and Mr. Vanderbilt’s conversation with Mr. Astor, whatever it was, was putting him to sleep. I tried not to notice because it would make me laugh, but Mr. Astor’s eyes kept shutting.”
I caught Tom emerging from the alcove room across to where Alevia and I were sitting. Alevia must have noticed, too, because she smiled.
“He seems all right, thank goodness,” Alevia whispered, as though he could hear us a room away. “Bessie asked me to send her a telegram if we didn’t see him tonight. I suppose he’s been grieving and she was worried that with the funeral today he’d be inconsolable.” Bessie had remained at the Trents’ House in Greenwich following the wedding. She’d been inundated with business as New Yorkers gradually left the city for the summer and thought it would be better to fit and craft the forty or so hats in the country.
“I’m sure she’s told you about Tom saying he wanted to marry her at the wedding?” I asked.
“Yes. She’s very excited. I told her I was going to attend James Helfenstein’s organ recital at Grace Church last Sunday and she asked me to go down to Great-aunt Rose’s grave at the VanPelt cemetery in Richmond Town afterward to tell her. I felt a little peculiar going without Bess, but I know that Aunt Rose would be proud. I’m thrilled for them, for her.” She sighed, looking around at the painters and writers and musicians scattered around the room. “I know it’s practically blasphemy to say this, but do you ever think that perhaps you don’t want to?” Alevia’s eyes were cast down at her lap. “Get married, I mean.” I knew it took great courage to admit she felt that way. I’d only dared say it a handful of times myself, though I thought it often.
“After Charlie, all the time. And then when we saw Cherie, I thought that if I had a husband that forbade me to write, I’d die. Now—”
“Why do things have to change?” Alevia blurted, cutting off my confession that I was altogether confused by the prospect of being faced with a proposal. I tried my best to avoid the topic; it was the only way I enjoyed my growing feelings for John—whatever they were. Alevia looked at her hands, at the fingers that had worked tirelessly to make her one of the best pianists I’d ever heard. “I know I’ve asked the same question before, and I know it’s silly, but I miss Mae. And I think that if I had to move away, I’d miss you and Mother and Bessie . . . and the freedom of spending as much time as I wanted with my music.”
“I miss her, too.” Mae had always been my voice of reason when things were overwhelming. Over the past week, I’d headed down the hall to her room twice before realizing she wasn’t there.
“Mae has always wanted a family to care for. And she and Henry are both passionate about teaching. Most men still believe that music is a profession that should exclude women. And even if I found one that didn’t abide such nonsense, what if I was a better performer than he? What if I was more successful? I’m afraid that sort of reality would mutilate the pride of a man. My dreams could sour a marriage, and I wouldn’t forfeit my aspirations to save it.” Alevia took a deep breath. “I suppose I’ve just been thinking a lot about the Carters and the thought that any day I could drop dead. The thought makes me want to sit down at the piano and never get up.”
“You wouldn’t want to spend your final day eating cucumber sandwiches and bragging about your husband?” I laughed, but Cherie’s dark and harrowing portrait leapt to mind, a vision of life with the wrong person. I knew there were happy marriages—Mae and Henry’s were one of them—but there was a certain type of apprehension that came with marriage when you were a woman and an artist.
“Virginia.” Lost in thought, I looked up to find Tom.
“Hello, Tom,” Alevia said, turning her eyes only briefly from the string quartet tuning next to the piano. Tom grinned at her and then looked back at me. He seemed all right, but I knew he had to be suffering. “I’m glad to see you’re holding up. I’m so sorry about Mr. Carter.” I placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
“If you must know, I’m fine. Happy even,” he whispered. “Not that I’d tell anyone else because I’d probably go to hell for saying it, but I hated the man. He hurt my sister.” I still didn’t know all of the particulars of that relationship and wanted to know for Franklin’s sake, for Lydia’s.
“Tom, I’ve been wondering. Whatever happened with—”
“Can you come with me for a moment? I want to show you something.”
“I would be happy to later. Alevia and I are about to listen to the quartet.” I gestured toward Alevia whose brows furrowed as the cellist turned away from the piano, letting the fallboard strike the key bed.
“Actually, it’s quite all right if you need to go,” she said. I was surprised at her boldness. She rarely allowed her family to leave her side unless she was playing. “I think I’ll speak with that cellist about the care of an instrument as fine as a Weber.” She crossed the room, the ends of the purple ribbon affixed to her black skirt fluttering as she went.
“Good,” Tom said. He walked toward the alcove and I followed, glancing around for Franklin and Lydia. I supposed Frank had taken her someplace to calm down.
A swarm of embellished silk caught my eye, a grouping of ladies gathered around a very handsome dark-haired man who seemed to be enjoying the attention. He was reclining against the fireplace palming one of the carved lions along the legs, smiling as the women laughed at something he was reading.
“Hamilton Revelle.” Tom tipped his head in the direction of my gaze. “Aspiring actor, skillful philanderer.” He coughed. “Ladies always circle around him like ravenous sharks.”
“It seems to me that he wouldn’t mind being devoured.”
“That’s true.” Tom chuckled, though his merriment seemed strained, almost nervous. “In fact his reputation has been confirmed many times, unlike John’s—” He stopped midsentence, cheeks reddening, likely unsure if I’d heard the rumors.
“I’ve heard. And no, I don’t believe it. I know he’s a gentleman.” Tom tipped his head and opened the door to the alcove. He collapsed onto the chair, eyes gleaming in the pink and white moonlight raining in from the stained glass.
“What is it, Tom? The suspense is killing me,” I said.
“Well,” he started, sinking back in the chair, “the time has finally come.”
“You’re writing to ask Bess to marry you, aren’t you?” After all of the chatter I’d had to endure from Bess, I was elated he was going to ask.
“Of course not,” he breathed, nose scrunching as though it were the most asinine question he’d ever heard.
“What do you mean by that?” I snapped. Regardless of our strained relationship, she was my sister. “I asked you a question.” I stepped toward him. “What did you mean by that?” Inches from his face, my hand started to rise at my side, ready to slap him.
“That I’m going to wait until she gets back from the country to ask her?” His eyes went wide and he shrugged as if I’d gone mad.
“Oh.” I backed away.
“I do love her,” he continued, “in case you’re wondering, and it won’t be long. Heaven knows we won’t be able to endure a lengthy engagement either without . . .” Tom bit his lip and looked down. I studied my hands, disgusted by the thought of Tom running his fingers over Bessie’s body. He coughed. “In any case. My news is of a more professional nature.” He turned to the desk, rifled through some papers and withdrew a magazine. He held it out to me—the new edition of The Century magazine. I stared at the drawing of a colonial streetscape of New York on the front, steeling myself to see his name printed on the page instead of my own. “I just received it in the post today. I thought you should be the first to see it.” I forced a smile at him.
“Thank you for showing me. I’m so very thrilled for you.” I flipped through the magazine, scanning the pages for his name.
“It’s on page 158.” He edged to the front of his seat. I found the page and read the title: The Traitor in All of Us. There was a small illustration next to it, a woman in a hoop skirt glancing over her shoulder. The drawing was a peculiar accompaniment for the topic he’d chosen. I lifted my eyes from the magazine. Tom’s forehead was creased, lips pale. He was nervous for me to read his work, though I couldn’t figure why. Mr. Gilder had already sung his praises.
“Did they give you a chance to review the illustrations? It seems strange that they would complement a story about Ben Franklin’s wartime spying with a woman dressed in the clothing of my grandmother’s time.”
“Oh, no,” Tom said. “I didn’t write that story. I mean, I started to, but Ben Franklin’s contribution to the post seemed a little dry.” Leaning back in the desk chair, he looked away from me, tapping his fingers on the knobby arm. “Come to think of it, I came up with the idea after one of our conversations. The story is about unity, really, about the humanity of both the Yankees and the Confederates. I used Lincoln and his Confederate relatives to illustrate the point.” I gaped at him, feeling as though the wind had been knocked from my lungs. My eyes fell to the page.
Mrs. Emilie Todd Helm was an enemy of our nation. Her soul was for the Southland, stamped with the stars and bars of the Confederacy, and her heart was no different, belonging to a man who died with the blood of Union soldiers on his hands. She was a proud Rebel, unwilling to compromise her loyalty, unwilling to surrender, but in her hour of greatest grief it was President Lincoln’s White House, the home of her sister, Mary Todd Lincoln, that offered her sanctuary.
The words were mine. Blood rushed to my head, dizzying my senses. I reached a hand out to steady myself on the wall as the realization dawned on me: Tom hadn’t returned my story after he encouraged me to abandon it.
“This is my writing. You stole my work.” My voice was full of rage.
“No, I didn’t. I came up with this idea quite on my own.” Ignoring my anger, he swiveled away from me and plucked his pencil from the desktop, twirling it between his fingertips. “Stole your idea,” he scoffed. Before I knew it, I’d launched myself across the room. I snatched his jaw, fingers pinching so hard into his shallow skin I could feel bone.
“Liar,” I snarled. “It is my writing. Every word. You stole it because you knew it was better than yours.” He shook his head to disagree, but didn’t try to break free from my grasp. “You’ll answer for this. You’ll admit it to me and you’ll confess to Mr. Gilder.” He still didn’t say anything. I tightened my grip on his face.
“I’ll admit that it’s similar to yours,” he said finally through pinched lips. “But our ideas are different.” I couldn’t draw a full breath and felt light-headed, my vision fuzzy. Suddenly, his hand clasped the nape of my neck and pulled my face to his. “I find your anger . . . amusing,” he whispered. “Accuse me of anything you wish, Virginia. Tell everyone. It won’t matter, you know. No one will believe you.” His breath, rank with liquor, hovered in my nostrils. I jerked away from him. He was right. I’d shared the story with him before anyone else. There was no reason for anyone to believe me. No one else had ever read it. “You’re a woman . . . with no husband and no name. Why would I plagiarize your work?”
“You may have made it into The Century, but you’ll never really amount to anything,” I said. “Charlatans never do.” Whirling on my heels, I threw the door open, making a beeline for Alevia who’d returned to the damask ottoman.
“Tell Franklin, wherever he is, that I’ve gone to Mae’s. I’ll see you there.” My breath was still coming and going in short spurts and Alevia’s eyes went wide. I had to get out of there. I had to come up with a plan. Tom wouldn’t get away with passing my work off as his own.
“What happened?” she asked. “I’ll come with you.”
“Tom has . . . he’s stolen my story. The article in The Century is mine,” I sputtered. As angry as I was, I couldn’t bear to rehash it, not now. I just needed to leave. “And I plan to make him answer for it.”