In the dark, Opal studied the shape of Bertie’s mouth, the way her whole face looked squeezed. “I was a fool to think…” Her voice caught. “I did what I could, didn’t I? But that’s the trouble. It’s never enough.”
“It’s not your fault,” Opal said, but the words fell flat. Charles would eventually sell the factory, and Bertie was right: With no child to tether them together, he’d leave her. She thought of Amanda Mahooney and that ring with a gemstone the color of sea glass.
“I sent my lawyer to Dowd’s.”
“I know,” Opal said.
A wave of pain passed through Bertie, but then she recovered herself. “I was trying to protect you. You’ve made something special—they’ll just try to take it away from you. That’s what they do. That’s what they always do. Dixie Ellison’s a powerful woman, you know. She has connections. But you and I, we could work together. We could build something. A partnership.”
Perhaps the woman had been protecting her all along, looking out for her interests. A partner. Arealpartner. “The formula needs reworking,” Opal started to explain. “I’ve miscalculated something.
Bertie continued as though she hadn’t heard Opal. “Dowd’s could hardly keep it on the shelves. Think of the women you’re helping—of the women you’ve already saved. You don’t need Dowd’s. We can create our own brand—our own business. I have the resources, but first, I need your help.” Her tone changed. She shifted uncomfortably on the bed. On her table was a call bell, but she didn’t ring it. “Please. I’m willing to pay. Whatever the cost.”
Now Opal leaned closer. She smelled Bertie’s perfume, and that undid her, the thought of a woman suffering so much yet still dabbing herself with oil.
Opal understood pain, but she was no magician. No doctor, either.
“I needsomethingto give to Charles. Before he sells it—before he can go through—”
Opal knew what she was asking before she finished the sentence. Men have weapons, hands strong enough to squeeze the breath out of another, should they choose. Without weapons or strong hands, a woman must find other means.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Opal said.
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” Bertie said. “Charles will take everything from me. I’ll have nothing.”
Imagination is the first step toward freedom. In the laboratory, she had let herself imagine a life without her baby, then a feeling rose up in her chest that she tried to suppress because this was the life she’d chosen for herself when she’d handed Jagr that drink. She couldn’t do it—she couldn’t swallow the capsule.Save her, that voice had said.
But a partnership. They could save each other.
For a time after, Opal would ponder this moment with a series of agonizing questions. What if she’d helped Bertie Tuttle poison her husband? Would it have ended differently? She’d considered her options for a moment. She knew there were simple methods. Cyanide. Morphine. A toxic cocktail drawn from Jagr’s formulary.
“Do you know what it’s like to want something so badly? To see it so clearly, but to be unable to grasp it?” Bertie asked.
“Yes,” Opal whispered. “I do.”
“I’ll give you anything you want. Beyond my allowance, I don’t have access to money, but I do have means. I do have standing and influence. What do you want more than anything?” Bertie began to cry.
Opal froze, stiff through the middle, her arms stiff, too. She was turning into stone, she believed, right there at the edge of Bertie’s bed. She couldn’t move her hands or her feet. She’d seen paralysis come on suddenly in Jagr’s stroke patients, and for a flash of a moment, terror washed over her. Someone might have to carry her away, stiffened like a dead thing after rigor mortis set in.
What possessed Opal in this moment? Madame de Fleur? Another voice? She would think of it again and again. She felt tingling throughout her body, deadened limbs awakening. The body knows things before the brain can register what that might be. A primal instinct. She still had choices. She’d had them all along.
Then: The awkwardness of her fingers. The give of her fabric as she unbuttoned her blouse. The clock struck a new hour and chimed three times, and Opal took this as a sign. Every woman must divide herself into three parts, like those three gifts from the three wise men.
Root.
Flower.
Seed.
Darkness provides for certain allowances. That’s why séances take place at night. What happens there, in the dark, remains unprovable. It was afternoon, but the windows were shuttered. Bertie watched as Opal unfastened each button on her blouse. Opal watched Bertie watch her. She felt powerful in this moment, but nervous, too. One button. Two. Three. Bit by bit she came undone. Her shirt went slack. She undid the stays on her maternity corset. She loosened it.
There it was, her secret, for Bertie to see: her belly, low and round, a half-moon of smooth, hard flesh. Bertie didn’t appear to know what she was observing aside from exposed skin. Her first reaction was to turn away. Then she looked back, her eyes startled wide. There wassomething grotesque about it: Opal’s round belly, like skin stretched over a smooth boulder. She reached for Bertie’s hand and pressed it to her stomach. Her confused expression told Opal she’d done well hiding her form.
Bertie’s hand unmoored Opal from some invisible anchor. A touch she hadn’t known she’d wanted. Warmth from the contact point spread over her body, until she was set aglow, until her feet and hands buzzed with anticipation and relief. She waited for Bertie to speak.
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
