But the truth, of course: Maeve has no other options.
Cora clears her throat, taking another sip from her teacup, trying in vain to put the memories back into their dark places, shut the doors and lock them tight—but she can’t. It sounds as though Cora has only made things worse for the old woman. Did she even think about Maeveoncewhen she took off that morning near Hell’s Kitchen?
Despite all of Cora’s supposed guilt—her sympathy for Arabella and Harry, her concerns about the ruthlessness of Alice’s plan—is she really any more merciful than her mentor, not caring who gets hurt, not caring who gets left behind on her quest to right past wrongs?
“I never meant to vanish on you so abruptly,” she finally says. “You have to understand, working with Prospero was adead end for me. I made peanuts every week and Dinah was threatening to have me fired. I want to buy back my home, Maeve. I want to—I need to make what happened right.” Cora steals a breath. “So when an opportunity came along that I couldn’t pass up, to learn from someone, someone—”
“Is all this a job?” Maeve says quietly, vaguely gesturing to Cora’s velvet dress and petticoat, her delicately made-up face and carefully arranged chignon. She lowers her voice. “Like your...” The older woman’s eyes flit around before she discreetly mimes picking her own pocket, then flashes Cora a single raised, questioning eyebrow.
“It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid.” Cora sighs. “In more ways than one.”
“Is there a fella involved?” Maeve asks, rather shrewdly.
Her breath catches, her eyes sharpening on her old friend. Maeve would never try to blackmail her, would she? Did Maeve get a good look at Arabella? Would she sell Cora down the river for a chance to make a quick score with the smart set herself?
As if she can read her mind, the older woman shakes her head.
“Don’t worry, love,” Maeve whispers. “Ain’t gonna rat you out. I want the best for you. Always did.”
Cora hastily finishes her tea, attempting to mask the tears that have begun stinging her eyes. She suddenly feels like the loneliest person in the world.
Maeve glances at the tea shop clock, wincing. She finishes the remains of her own cup in one gulp. “I’d best return next door. Rehearsal’s starting, and you know the great magician doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
She reaches across the table, laying her calloused hand atop Cora’s.
“I’d say take care of yourself, eh?” Her smile is flat. “But it seems you always do.”
The words continue to burn as Cora wanders uptown, taking the air instead of hailing a cab. Her thoughts kicking up, twisting and turning like a Great Plains dust devil—painful recollections, people, uncomfortable truths all swirling together.
Maeve. Dinah. Arabella. Harry.
Da.
Is it the very worst thing to be a fool? Or could it be worse to be so clouded by supposed justice, so consumed by “winning” and revenge, that you lose all sense of decency?
Forget Alice; Cora may be no better than those vulturous bankmen from Ross & Calhoun.
She sniffs, shaking her head as she turns onto Madison.
Conmen. Victims. Victors. Marks. If no one is brave enough to break the cycle, when will it ever end?
A tear spills loose as Cora crosses Third Avenue, thoughts still churning.
Well, this performance is far from over, and Cora may have another trick up her sleeve. Though whether the twist will lead to one heck of a finale or ruin the show entirely remains to be seen.
Chapter 27
A Matter of Fairness
March 29, 1884
“What do you suppose will happen to the marks after they’re ruined?” Cora sits in her pauper’s gown—a sort of cobbled collection of frayed rags sewn onto an evening gown frame, complete with a bunched cotton bustle—her face tilted upward, eyes closed, so that Béatrice can apply charcoal to the area around her lashes.
It’s no easy feat to make someone look all the prettier for being filthy, but Béa has managed it, Alice admits—although she did draw the line when Béa offered to do the same for her.
Bad enough to be mocking the poor in her burlap gown and stained gloves. Her face can be left alone, thank you.
“In what sense?” Alice eventually replies. “Emotionally? Practically?”
