Three

Marianne trudged down the sidewalk on Friday morning, cradling the satchel of photographic negatives for the pictures she’d taken this week. Ice and a crusty film of snow covered most of the sidewalk, but she aimed for the few patches of bare concrete as she made her way to the Gunderson Photography Studio. It was the largest studio in the city, with a gallery in the lobby, a studio for making portraits, and darkroom space that could be rented by the hour.

It was mercifully warm inside. She flashed a smile toward old Mrs. Gunderson at the front counter. “Is the government darkroom available?”

“Abel Zakowski is still using it, but he should be out soon.” Abel also worked for the Department of the Interior, although they performed drastically different tasks. While she took photographs of people and buildings all over the city, Abel took photographs at government speeches and events.

Marianne took a seat in the waiting area. It was crowded today, with a number of families lined up to have their portraits made. Photography was becoming more affordable, with some people coming every few years for new family pictures. Marianne’s gaze ran across the photographs mounted on the wall. None of them were to her liking. They were formal poses taken before props of Grecian columns or painted backdrops, whereas Marianne preferred capturing people out in the real world. Sometimes it was pictures of workday routines that were the most moving. Last year she had photographed girls working in a fish cannery down by the wharves, and those pictures had been submitted to the Bureau of Labor to argue for better enforcement of child labor laws. Three of those girls were only fourteen years old, and seeing their young faces drawn with exhaustion was more persuasive than any dry government report.

She still had a few minutes before Abel left the darkroom, so she took a well-thumbed novel from her handbag. Opening the book, she was soon transported to the arid landscapes of seventeenth-century Spain and the adventures of long-ago people.

“Hello, Aunt Marianne.”

She caught her breath as her gaze flew up to the man standing beside her chair.

“Hello, Luke,” she said, trying to block the thrill from her voice but probably failing. He’d come looking for her. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Not after the roses, and especially not after the way he was currently gazing down at her with roguish delight. “Thank you for the roses.”

“You’re welcome. May I join you?”

There was an empty chair beside her, and he filled it the moment she nodded.

“Have you recovered from the ice?” she asked.

“Fully. How’s the dog?”

“Bandit is doing well, and my nephew thinks you are the bravest man in the city. How did you know I would be here?” Her heart still pounded at Luke’s unexpected arrival, for he was as attractive as she remembered.

“Rumor has it that the photographers who work at Interior get their photographs developed here on Friday mornings, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to seek you out.” There wasn’t much room in the crowded lobby, so he was pressed close to her side, and energy and excitement immediately hummed between them.

“I’m glad you did,” she said, seeing no reason to be coy.

His gaze dropped to the book on her lap, and he tilted to read the spine. “Don Quixote?”

“It’s my favorite novel,” she said.

Luke slanted her a disapproving glance. “But you’re reading a terrible translation.”

“I am? I didn’t know there was more than one.”

“Don Quixote has been translated into English eleven times in the last two hundred years,” Luke said. “The twelfth will be out later this year, and it’s the best.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m the translator.”

She burst into laughter. “No!”

He grinned. “Yes!”

“Why are you bothering to translate a book that’s already been translated so often?”

“Because the other translations are lousy. I’ve read them all, and know I can do better.”

It was such an arrogant thing to say, but it was impossible not to smile at his unabashed boasting, and if he had read eleven different translations of Don Quixote, he must love the novel as much as she did.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he continued. “This translation is shamefully close to my heart, and aside from my editor at the publishing company, no one knows about it.”

The fact that he shared the secret with her triggered a tiny thrill. “Why haven’t you told anyone about it?”

“It’s embarrassing.” He blushed madly as he spoke, so apparently he was genuinely sensitive about it. This was a man who risked his life to save a stranger’s dog but was embarrassed about his secret translation project. “It’s not a traditional translation. I’ve modernized it. I’m not as long-winded as Cervantes, and English is a very different language than Spanish. I’m afraid I took some literary license. A lot, actually.”

Marianne’s brows rose. “Are you allowed to do that?”

He shrugged. “I’m doing it. The other translations are so literal. A word-for-word translation sounds unnatural in English. I want the text to heave with emotion. I don’t want Don Quixote to be sad, I want him to rend his garments and howl in despair. I want blood and tears on the page. It’s going to be a controversial translation. A lot of people will hate it.”

“Blood and tears on the page? My, we are extravagant today.”

He preened at her comment. “We are extravagant every day,” he admitted. “Passion is what sets the world ablaze and drives men to strike out for the horizon and discover new worlds. It makes me get up in the morning looking for a new dragon to slay or an antiquated text begging for the breath of new life.”

She couldn’t wait for his Don Quixote translation. If he wrote with the same fervor with which he spoke, the book would probably burst into flame while she read it.

“The darkroom is all yours, Marianne.”

It was Abel Zakowski, her fellow photographer from the department, nodding to her on his way out the front door. Never had she been less eager to head into the darkroom.

She sent an apologetic glance to Luke. “I only get an hour, so I can’t loiter.”

“I’ve never been in a darkroom,” Luke said. “Can I join you?”

She longed to spend more time with him, but a darkroom wasn’t the ideal place. “It can be a little stinky.”

“I don’t mind stinky,” he said with a good-humored wink.

She had a lot of work to squeeze into the next hour, so she tucked Don Quixote into her satchel and stood. “Then let’s go,” she said, and he rose to follow her.

Was this really happening? Was the world’s most charming and exciting man only steps behind her as they headed down a narrow hallway toward the darkroom?

She led the way inside, where the sharp scent of silver nitrate was ever-present in the air. She pulled the heavy drape away from the only window to let daylight into the room.

“This is where all the magic happens,” she said. The room wasn’t much bigger than a closet, with a worktable mounted against a wall and shelves laden with jugs of chemicals. She watched him scan the room, noting the bathing trays, the glass plates, the wooden frames, and stacks of mounting paper. Taking pictures was easy. It was developing them that was the challenge.

“I was planning to enlarge pictures today,” she said. “My camera only takes small photographs, but the government needs them to be at least eight-by-eleven inches, so we use an enlarging box to make them bigger.”

“Don’t let me interfere,” Luke said. “Do exactly what you would do on any other day. Pretend I’m not here.”

“As if that would be possible,” she quipped as she took a stack of small photographs from her satchel. She kept the negatives in a tin box but would only enlarge the best of them because paper and developing solution were expensive. “Here,” she said, handing Luke the stack. “Have a look and tell me which you think I should enlarge.”

“I’d rather sit here and watch you work. You’re more interesting than”—he glanced at the top picture—“a photograph of the US Capitol. I see it every day. You, on the other hand, are a living piece of art. A Gibson Girl. A Fragonard milkmaid. A Botticelli nymph.”

“I’m not a Botticelli.”

“No? Botticelli’s women are beautiful.”

“They’re naked.”

His smile was pure mischief. “Not all of them.”

“Most are. Look at those photographs of the Capitol and tell me which you think I should enlarge.”

She watched his expression as he studied them. He moved through the photographs quickly, but the narrowing of his eyes indicated complete concentration.

Then he froze, his expression shocked. “You took this?” he said, his voice aghast as he showed her a photograph of the Capitol dome.

“I did.”

“You had to be crawling on the dome to get this shot!”

“I was.”

“Are you insane?”

She fought not to laugh. “No. And I’m proud of that photograph. I had to work hard for it.”

“You had to risk your neck for it. How did you get up there?”

In truth, it had been rather daunting, but her father had pulled strings to get her access, and he was with her the whole way. The dome was eighteen stories high, and she climbed a series of interior spiral and zigzag staircases to get most of the way up. Things didn’t get truly frightening until she climbed higher, where interior metal trusses supported the weight of the dome. It gave her a claustrophobic feeling, and the windowless space made her feel like she was in the hull of a ship, completely surrounded by trusses peppered with bolts the size of her forearm to hold up the concrete dome.

She and her father crawled outside onto the narrow exterior workmen’s ledge so she could photograph the city from two hundred feet in the air. Stepping out into the bright sunlight had been awe-inspiring, but the wind tearing at her hair and clothing had been the biggest surprise. She’d gotten spectacular panoramic photographs of the city, as well as some close-ups of the embellishments on the Capitol dome.

She described the process of getting onto the dome, and Luke seemed both fascinated and appalled that she had done such a thing.

“My father was with me the whole time,” she said.

“He actually permitted you to do such a foolhardy thing?”

“My father has never stopped me from doing anything I truly wanted,” she replied. “Just the opposite. From the time I was a child, he taught me to dream big, and that if I wanted something badly enough, he’d let me fight for it. It didn’t matter that I was a girl. I’ve always known that he would be behind me the whole way.”

“Your father sounds like a wise man.”

She nodded. “I’m very lucky. Now, tell me which of the dome photos you think I should enlarge. I can only do four close-ups and five cityscapes.”

Luke handed the stack back to her. “I’m not an artist. You pick.”

She quickly selected the shots that showed the dome at its worst. An appropriations bill for restoring government buildings would be voted on soon, and the top of the dome wasn’t something officials could examine themselves.

She attached a large piece of bromide paper to a frame on one end of the enlarging box, then slid the original negative into a smaller frame on the other side.

“Now we need to darken the room, but I’m going to use the arc lamp to send a bright beam of light through the lens and then wait two minutes. The image will be imprinted on the larger piece of paper.”

She pulled the drapes closed, plunging the room into darkness, then switched on the tungsten bulb to provide a dim amber glow in the room. The arc lamp at the small end of the enlarging box beamed through the negative, casting the image onto the bromide paper.

“I feel like I should whisper,” Luke murmured in the darkness.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered back. “All we have to do is hold still and not jostle the box. The chemicals are doing all the work.”

She repeated the process to enlarge twelve additional pictures, then began the process of developing the photographs.

“This is the stinky part,” she warned as she poured solution into the developing trays. She set the first page into the chemical bath, and Luke stood by her shoulder, watching as she gently tipped the tray to keep the liquid gently washing the paper. The images developed quickly, but if she didn’t lift them from the solution in time, they darkened to an unacceptable degree. After a minute, she lifted the paper out with tongs and set it in the stop bath to neutralize the chemicals. Ten seconds later, she set it in the final tray to fix the image. Then she clipped the photograph onto a clothesline to dry.

After Luke watched the process a few times, he wanted to try. He caught on quickly, and soon she happily turned the task over to him. He was fun to watch as he went through the steps she’d taught him.

“Do you like being a government photographer?” he asked as he clipped another photograph to the clothesline.

“I love it. Developing the pictures is the most tedious part, but now that I’ve got you on the job, my life is just about perfect.”

He smiled, but it vanished quickly. “I’ve heard some rumors about the photographers who work at your department.”

She wondered about the note of concern in his voice. “That they’re going to give us the axe?”

“That’s the one.”

“Maybe. All the photographers are compiling portfolios of our best work. The hope is that we can convince the department that a picture can tell an important story, but I’ll be fine no matter what happens. My father won’t let me starve.”

Luke continued clipping up her photographs, and even in the dim light she could see the affection on his face. “If your father lets you down, let me know,” he said. “I like rescuing damsels in distress.”

“I’m not a damsel in distress.”

“Could you pretend? I’m actually just searching for an excuse to see you again. Do you think that’s something we can arrange?”

“I hope so.” She’d never in her life been so attracted to a man, and she scrambled for an opportunity for them to be together. “My father has tickets to a performance at the Lafayette Square Opera House. He’ll let us use them if I ask nicely.”

Luke let out a low whistle. “He must be well-connected. I tried and failed to get tickets.”

“He’s a congressman. People tend to offer him things like that.”

Luke swiveled to look at her. “Oh? Who is he?”

“Clyde Magruder, representative from the fourth district in Maryland.”

Luke blanched and swallowed hard. She smiled, because despite her father’s lofty title, he wasn’t an intimidating person.

“Your father is Clyde Magruder?” he asked in an awful whisper.

“Yes. Do you know him?” It could be the only reason for his strange behavior.

“Did you know my last name is Delacroix?”

It felt like her heart stopped beating. She blinked, hoping she had misunderstood. “As in Delacroix Global Spice?” she finally stammered. “Are you joking?”

“I wish I was.”

She felt like a sleepwalker as she wandered to the window. The Delacroixs were terrible people. They were arrogant, privileged snobs who looked down on hardworking people like her father and grandfather.

“Your brother has said horrible things about my family,” she managed to say. “Unforgivable things.”

“That was a long time ago,” Luke said.

Not long enough for her to forget. She still remembered coming home from school one blustery autumn day, delighted that she’d finally passed her math class, only to see her mother’s tear-stained face as she held a magazine on her lap. Gray Delacroix thought nothing of slandering them in the press, and that interview in which he attacked their entire family caused her parents no end of pain. Her grandfather won a libel suit against him, and the Delacroixs had to pay a shocking settlement fee, but money couldn’t restore a tainted reputation.

Her mother wasn’t the sort of person who could absorb a punch. Words could leave scars, and that was one her mother still carried.

“Your brother said my grandfather had dirt beneath his fingernails,” she said in a pained voice. “That he wasn’t fit to be in the food industry.”

“That was my brother, not me.”

She placed a hand over her heart, willing it to stop racing. She couldn’t blame Luke for something his brother had said. After all, it was years ago, and Luke was too young to have been involved in that nasty lawsuit. He was a good man. He risked his life to save Bandit. They held hands and laughed on the ice, even though they’d both been afraid. The Delacroixs had been trying to drive her family out of business for decades, but surely that was other people in his family, not Luke.

She risked a glance at him. “You don’t believe all those terrible things your brother said about us, do you?”

She wanted an immediate denial, but the sadness and regret on his face was all the answer she needed. He did believe those things. They were enemies.

“Marianne, I’m so sorry,” he said. “You seem like a great person, but there’s too much bad blood here. We probably shouldn’t see each other again.”

“You’re probably right,” she admitted. Any sort of liaison between them would be too difficult, but that didn’t stop the wanting. “I only wish we could have had another day or two before we found out.”

“Maybe a week,” Luke agreed.

“A month?”

“How about a year?”

She had to laugh at how easily he bantered with her. He was fun, but seeing him would be like throwing a bomb into her family’s home. It wasn’t worth it. At least now she understood why her father got so annoyed when he saw her picture of Luke with the dog. He’d known who Luke was and suggested she have nothing more to do with him. Blood was thicker than water. Even ice water, she thought inanely.

At the door, Luke turned to her with an impish smile and wagged his finger in her face. “No more crawling on the Capitol dome, young lady.”

“Too dangerous?”

“Too dangerous,” he affirmed.

“It probably was,” she admitted. “Good luck with the Don Quixote translation. I’ll look forward to it.”

He winked at her. “It will be the best.”

Then the amusement in his face turned into reluctant admiration as he glanced back at the photographs hanging on the clothesline. “No matter what else happens, I think your pictures are wonderful. And so are you.”

He closed the door behind him, and Marianne felt like she’d just lost a good friend.

Luke was still mulling over his bad luck as he rode the streetcar back to the Alexandria neighborhood where he’d been born and raised.

Marianne Magruder. Magruder. Luke had plenty of friends, thousands of acquaintances, a handful of rivals, but only one real enemy in the world, and his name was Clyde Magruder.

Luke wouldn’t let an inconvenient attraction stand in the way of a lifelong grudge. No matter how much he admired Marianne, he intended to get Clyde kicked out of Congress.

He walked the last few blocks to the three-story colonial town house he shared with Gray and his wife. He was inexplicably tired as he mounted the steps and prepared to unlock the front door, but then paused.

Arguing voices could be heard inside. He cocked his ear closer to listen, for it was clearly Gray’s voice berating Annabelle over something, and that was odd. Gray worshipped the ground Annabelle walked on, and they were still newlyweds. Luke didn’t want to walk into an embarrassing quarrel, but he still couldn’t tell the nature of their disagreement.

It sounded like they were arguing about Annabelle’s job. She’d been working as a lab assistant at the Department of Agriculture for over a year, and she loved the work, but they were clearly squabbling about it. Annabelle said she liked her supervisor and didn’t want to quit.

Then Gray said something too low to hear, and they both started laughing. It was freezing out here, and since it didn’t sound like a horrible lovers’ quarrel, Luke inserted his key in the lock and let himself inside. Gray and Annabelle were in the kitchen down the hall, and he stamped the snow from his feet to let them know he was there.

“Luke!” Annabelle said warmly. “Come into the kitchen. I’ve made lamb stew for lunch. You’re the perfect person to help me talk sense into Gray.”

Luke loved the sound of her voice. Everything about Annabelle was cheerful and optimistic, but as usual, Gray looked brooding and annoyed. The scent of simmering meat was too tempting to resist, and he helped himself to a bowl before joining them at the small kitchen table.

“There’s a new initiative in the chemistry division at the Department of Agriculture,” Annabelle said. “They’re finally getting serious about proving the detrimental effect of chemical preservatives on human health and are launching a controlled scientific study to document the consequences.”

“Excellent!” Luke said, wolfing another mouthful of stew. “Long past due, if you ask me.”

Annabelle worked in the cereal grass laboratory, but lately she had been spending a few hours per week at the lab that tested some of the worst of the preservatives being pumped into the nation’s milk and meat supply. Borax, benzoate, and formaldehyde were supposed to extend the shelf life of dairy and meat, but none of them had ever been proven safe. There were no laws against the sale of adulterated food, and cost-cutting methods were shockingly creative. Butter was often only beef tallow steeped in yellow food dye. Chalk powder was used to disguise milk diluted with water. Children’s candy was colored with lead dyes.

And sometimes coffee was adulterated with chicory and chemical flavorings, leading to three dead people in Philadelphia.

He looked at Gray. “What’s your problem with the study? We ought to be dancing in the streets now that someone is finally doing something about this.”

Gray’s face was somber. “They’re planning to use human test subjects,” he said quietly.

Luke glanced at Annabelle. “True?”

“True,” she confirmed. “But Dr. Wiley will be overseeing the experiment, and surely he wouldn’t do anything to harm the volunteers. He’s a medical doctor, after all.”

“He’ll be feeding people borax!” Gray said. “Formaldehyde. How does one safely consume formaldehyde?”

It looked like he wanted to say more, but Luke interrupted him. “Who will the test subjects be?”

“We’ll be looking for twelve healthy young men,” Annabelle said. “They’ll get free room and board in exchange for participation.”

Luke sagged back in his chair, a world of possibility opening up. For five years he’d been tormented by his role in the death of those people in Philadelphia. This could be his chance to repay his debt. His chance to strike a blow at the Magruders and any other food producer who pumped chemicals into their food. If he served as a test subject, he could cover the story as a journalist from the inside, and it would make news around the world.

“Where do I sign up?” he asked. He was suddenly on his feet.

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Gray roared. “Sit back down. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m going to sign up,” he repeated, looking at Annabelle, who seemed as stunned as Gray. “Tell me where I go to volunteer.”

“Luke, I don’t think you’re healthy enough to volunteer,” she said.

“You’re sick and underweight and not thinking with a clear head,” Gray said.

Luke took his bowl to the stove, adding two more heaping scoops of meaty stew. “I won’t be underweight for long.”

A new field of combat in his war against the Magruders had just opened, and he was going to be on the front lines.