The server returns shortly with four glasses overflowing with foam.
Dagmar slides two Cora’s way. “Bottoms up.”
Cora nearly chokes on the first sip—the foam isn’t sweet, as she assumed, but tart and bitter, the liquid underneath reminiscent of the way the farm smelled in the morning—dewy wheat, sunshine, cut grass. It goes down easy, fills her belly with warmth.
When it’s all gone, Cora surprises herself by reaching for the second one.
“Thing is, there are far worse men than Harry,” she says, pausing to quietly burp. “He’s smart, in his own way. Observant. And without a doubt one of a kind.”
“Doez not sound so bad,” Dagmar grunts.
Cora takes another long pull from the glass. “Though, fine,if you insist on the full story, he is... also a fair sight peculiar. Truly obsessed... with science, particularly the human body. Also coddled, despite his father’s ruthless reputation. Bit of a fool, really, when it comes to the way of the world.”
“Ze kind of person one might like to dupe,” Dagmar amends with a shrug.
Cora sighs. “I’m beginning to worry we’re alike in that way.”
Dagmar finishes her glass.
“I simply don’t understand how Alice could do this to me.”
“Alice ez not your friend,mädchen.” Dagmar holds her gaze steady. “Alice does not have any friends. Only... what iz the word in English?Associates.”
“That’s the thing.” Cora’s stomach twists. “She’d never pull a stunt like this on you or Béa.”
“Ja,freilich, she would. Besides, you are different. You are face of... operation.Heroperation. One-way street. Ze sooner you get that through your head, ze better it will be.” Dagmar’s face changes as she scans the room. “Speaking of, I need to conduct some buzness of my own.” She nods to Cora’s glass. “Put zem on my tab, zey know I amguthere.”
The cook crosses the room, exchanging hellos with two young women who’ve just entered—housekeepers, maybe, or ladies’ maids. In moments, Dagmar’s face positively ignites with pleasure at the sight of a round-faced, burly bartender newly back on break.
The barman throws a rag over his shoulder, ducking under the counter, before spying Dagmar. A bashful, boyish grin curls underneath his thick mustache.
Cora’s confused. Could he be part of the Württemberg scheme, a player she doesn’t know about?
Dagmar coyly slides over to the bar, the beguiling smileshe’s wearing so incongruent with her menacing features that Cora has to stifle a laugh.
Is Dagmar keeping a sweetheart in the Bowery?
Does Alice know?
A laugh bursts out of Cora. She is about to join them, or at least eavesdrop; she’s beyond curious... but then promptly stops herself. Dagmar is here off the clock.She has her own circle, a real life, an existence outside of Alice’s machinations. Whereas Cora has become a puppet, Alice pulling the strings behind her every move.
What has happened to the girl who longed for the spotlight, who had her sights set on besting the world?
Who is she now anyway, besides Phony Miss Cora Ritter from the Kingdom of Balderdash?
Cora chugs the remains of her glass, stands decidedly—if surprisingly unsteadily—and heads toward the bar. Alice would obviously not condone a third pint of ale in the course of twenty minutes, especially not on an empty stomach, which makes securing another glass agrandidea.
She edges beside a group of businessmen, thrilling in the impropriety of being a woman alone among men. “Pardon, excuse me, on a very important mission. Barkeep! May I have another?”
Dagmar’s sweetheart, who is still busy exchanging sweet nothings with the cook, stands and grunts a reluctant acknowledgment. He pours Cora another round and slides the foamy pint across the counter.
“Bottoms up, Alice,” Cora declares and downs half the ale.
“Who’s Alice?”
She turns. For a second, Cora worries she’s imagining things. Again.
But no. Cal Archer, newspaper man, dogged journalist forThe Herald, is standing in front of her with a half-full glass and a very satisfied smirk.
