Maureen pounded frantically on the only door she trusted.

When Mrs. Melkford threw wide her door, Maureen nearly fell into her arms, and with her the howling January wind.

“Whatever are you doing out on such a night?”

“Please—can—can we stay the night?” Maureen begged, her teeth chattering so she could barely form her words.

“Of course! Come in! Come in! Why, you’re soaked clear through. Give me your coats.”

“It’s snowing to beat the band.” Katie Rose stamped layers of white from her boots.

“Did you get stuck along the way home from work?”

Maureen shook her head but couldn’t speak, had not formed, even in her mind, what explanation to give. “We can’t stay alone.” It was all she could say, all she could think to say.

“She came dashin’ in—in a whirlin’ tizzy—and dragged me out the door again.” Katie Rose unwound her muffler and unbuttoned her coat. “She wouldn’t even stop to eat the supper I prepared! We left it cold on our plates. She’s in an absolute state, and I’ve no idea why.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Maureen whimpered at last, her best attempt at explanation.

She saw Katie Rose and Mrs. Melkford exchange worried glances, but she couldn’t help it. I can’t tell them. It will put them in danger, just like Alice and Eliza! There’s no one to help! Oh, God, what am I to do?

“Sit down, my dear. Sit here, near the stove.”

Maureen was grateful that Mrs. Melkford guided her. Now that she was safe, she felt as if she couldn’t have found her way across the room, and she couldn’t stop the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

“I’m afraid this is my fault.” Mrs. Melkford poured each girl a mug of steaming coffee and pressed buttered rolls into their hands. “I told that Wakefield woman and the others where you worked, Maureen. I never should have done it without asking you. I’m so sorry.”

Maureen shook her head. Olivia Wakefield? That was a lifetime ago.

“That’s not it?” Mrs. Melkford looked more concerned than before. “Then what has happened? Has someone hurt you?” She looked to Katie Rose, who shrugged again, this time helplessly.

Maureen closed her eyes. How can I make them understand without tellin’ them? Look what my simple questions did to Alice and Eliza! There’s no one I dare tell, no one I dare risk, and no one I dare trust, none to help! Even Officer Flannery is party to their stealin’! Oh, please, God!

All her foundations felt like melting snow. Never had Maureen felt so entirely, absolutely alone, not since the night Julius Orthbridge first threw open her door.

Maureen woke Friday morning, exhausted, only to find the sun streaming through the window and Katie Rose gone to work.

“We didn’t want to wake you, dear,” Mrs. Melkford said when she peeked in the door midmorning. “You moaned through the night in your sleep, and you’re still running a fever.” She pulled the quilt up to Maureen’s neck. “I sent word to Darcy’s Department Store that you’re ill and won’t be in today or likely tomorrow. That should give you a good rest.”

Maureen sat up, knowing she should protest, worried that Mrs. Melkford had associated herself with any employee of Darcy’s, especially one who might be under suspicion for protesting so much—who might have been seen by Jaime Flynn. But the room began to swim and her thoughts with it. She laid her head back down on the pillow.

“That’s better,” Mrs. Melkford cooed. “I’ll bring you some breakfast. Just you wait here.”

But when Maureen closed her eyes, she saw the faces of Alice and Eliza rise up before her. Where are you now? Oh, where have they taken you?

She couldn’t seem to hold the thought steady in her brain. Her mind was about to drift to dreaming when she remembered why she’d returned to Darcy’s last night.

Maureen forced her eyelids open and willed strength into her limbs. She dropped her feet over the side of the bed and tiptoed across the cold floor to find her cracked leather purse laid squarely atop her neatly folded shirtwaist and skirt and stockings. She pulled Joshua’s letter from her purse, intending to throw it on the fire without reading it. As she prepared to toss it into the flames, she realized the address wasn’t from Joshua Keeton in America. The postage was Irish. Aunt Verna? She pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope.

Dearest Maureen and Katie Rose,

It has been over two months since you left County Meath, and I’ve not heard a word as to your health or whereabouts. My letters to the address of Colonel Wakefield have been returned, marked “Unknown,” and when I wrote directly to the colonel himself, my letter was returned, “Deceased.” I am at my wits’ end and regret the day I urged you to go.

I learned of Joshua Keeton’s whereabouts through his mother and took the liberty of writing to him, hoping that he will find you and see that you are both well. Please, please, dear nieces, if this reaches you, write and let me know where and how you are getting by. If the colonel is truly dead, I fear for your safety.

I’ve asked Joshua to help you, so be good to him, Maureen. He’s doing my bidding. I know your nasty temper, child.

All my love,

Aunt Verna

Maureen refolded the letter and returned it to the envelope. She crept back into bed and pulled the covers high about her neck, pushing away the chill that raced upward from her cold feet. You’re right to fear for our safety, Aunt. This is no better than Ireland. It’s hidden and secret and more violent in the stealin’ of its women—at least more violent than I’ve known. But it’s stealin’ and coercin’ and no doubt rape just the same. And who is there to stop it?