“She was,” Florence said quietly. “Everything she said was true.” She glanced up, her mouth trembling as she met Vivian’s eyes. “Including the fact that we’d have each other to depend on.”
Vivian wanted to argue. She wanted to rage at Florence for giving up on her—on both of them—all those years ago. She wanted to storm out of their dank apartment and throw herself into a wild dance to burn off the emotion that was trembling through her limbs. She wanted to burrow under the covers and cry until she was asleep.
Instead, she moved the pie plate to the rickety nightstand, then drewthe covers up over both of them, snuggling down until she was curled against her sister’s shoulder. “Tell me a story about our mother, Flo.”
She couldn’t see her sister’s face, but she could feel the exhale that shook Florence’s wiry body. “She loved to sing, all the time. She said music was good for any growing thing, including this ugly, dead flower she brought home one day. It was in a blue pot…”
SEVENTEEN
Vivian held her breath and her shoes as she tiptoed toward the door.
She had pretended to fall asleep next to Florence, who had drifted off in the middle of her story, worn out from the long day and emotional evening. It had taken over an hour of breathing quietly—struggling against the fatigue in her bones and eyes that wanted her to stay right where she was—before Vivian thought she could risk moving. Florence hadn’t stirred as she crept out of the bedroom, gathering her shoes and spangles as she went.
The floorboards in the main room were creaky in the midnight quiet. But Vivian had done this before, and she changed silently, making it to the front door without anything giving her away. The door itself was the biggest danger, crackling like a gunshot no matter how fast or slow she swung it open. Wincing, she grabbed her coat from the nail where it hung and pressed on until she was in the hallway, two walls between her and her hopefully unsuspecting sister.
Vivian didn’t linger, shrugging her coat on quickly so that anyneighbors who caught sight of her wouldn’t see what she was wearing. She padded down the four flights of stairs in her stocking feet. At the front of the building, she paused to slip on her shoes, tying the ribbons in quick, nervous knots. A glance in a window showed just enough reflection that she could settle a spangled headband over her bob and pin it in place, and then she was off, dodging through the darkened streets and between pools of lamplight, jumping at shadows. All around her were the sounds of the other New York City coming alive.
Heading all the way to the Nightingale on foot, alone in the dark, was too much for her that night. Vivian counted the change in her purse—she still had most of Hattie Wilson’s tip left over, enough to hail a cab. She gave the driver directions to a corner three blocks south of the Nightingale’s back-alley entrance.
Biting her lip, flinching at the sound of a man laughing one street over, Vivian hurried through the shadows. Silence the doorman recognized her face and gestured her inside.
When the second door swung open and a blast of heat and music greeted her, her shoulders relaxed. Vivian took her first deep breath since she had crept from her bed. The music was pulling her toward the dance floor, but she was on a mission. Making quick eye contact with Danny, and getting his nod of approval, she dropped her coat and purse behind the bar, squared her shoulders, and went in search of Honor.
Vivian couldn’t keep her feet still as she talked, moving restlessly from one end of Honor’s office to the other. She described what she had learned about Willard Wilson in jittery detail and why she was sure Leo had nothing to do with it.
“He’s had enough chances to give away something about Wilson, but it doesn’t seem to mean anything to him, and I believe him. He says he’s back in New York working for his uncle.”
Honor didn’t say anything, just stood silently, rigid and slumped at the same time, her hands braced as she leaned over her desk, watching Vivian’s restless progress around the room.
When Vivian described the way she had been cornered after seeing Roy with Mrs. Wilson, Honor dropped into her chair, her head resting briefly in her hands. The gesture stunned Vivian into silence.
A moment later, though, Honor lifted her head, brushed a pale curl back into place, and smiled. “God, you are such a brilliant girl, I could kiss you,” she said, her voice so warm with approval that it almost made Vivian forget the most important thing she had come to say.
She nearly smiled back before she remembered why she was there and scowled instead, crossing her arms belligerently as she finally sat in the chair across the desk from Honor. “Well, that sounds nice enough, but I think there are more important things to consider. Like the fact that doing your favor has landed me in a whole mess of trouble.”
Honor’s smile faded a little, and she acknowledged the point with a reluctant nod. “But,” she added, “it does leave you an easy way to get back into Wilson’s house and see what else you can uncover. Folks like that are always running their mouths off in front of servants and delivery girls. They’ll think you haven’t got more brains than a table. You can use that.”
“No.” Vivian thought about sugar-coating her answer and discovered she didn’t want to. “No,” she repeated, more firmly.
“Just until you find out a little more about Mr. Carlton,” Honor said, the warmth back in her voice as she leaned forward. Her eyes were wide and pleading, but her mouth smiled as if it were barely holding back its secrets. “Ever since you mentioned him to me that night, I’ve had him in the back of my mind. I just need to know whether he actually had a reason to want his boss dead, aside from just having a sweet tooth for his wife—which plenty of men do, without it ever driving them to murder. You have to take the dresses back anyway, right? It’s a perfect chance to find out what you can.”
“Forget it,” Vivian snapped. “I’m done. I found out what I could, andI nearly got my head cracked open in an alley for my trouble. I think that makes us more than square.”
“Vivian…” Honor sighed. “The idea of you in danger kills me, it really does. But it also sounds like you would have had your run-in even if you weren’t trying to fish for information, if Mr. Carlton is that jumpy about someone seeing him with Mrs. Wilson. And I’m glad to know about him… but I need help.” She leaned forward, taking Vivian’s hand between both of hers, her forehead creased with worry. “The message came through loud and clear the other night. Someone is unhappy about Wilson’s death here, and I need to be able to give them something to show I wasn’t involved. And you’ve got to go back to see Hattie Wilson anyway, right? So why not keep your ears open for me then, too?”
“Because I’m scared.” It was hard to say out loud. Vivian wanted to seem fearless in the face of the city’s underground dangers, the way Honor herself always did. But she couldn’t pretend, not this time.
“Vivian.” Honor’s grip tightened, and her eyes closed for a moment as if she were in pain. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t so very, very important.” She hesitated, then stood abruptly, and paced away before coming back. Leaning over her desk, she frowned in thought, drumming her fingers on the wood for several moments before glancing at Vivian out of the corner of her eye. “What if I can make it worth your while?”
Vivian tensed, hesitating, then asked, “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I hear things. You remember asking about my files?”
Vivian nodded, suddenly unsure where her conversation was going.
“Every upstanding citizen has a dirty secret,” Honor said softly. Taking a tube of lipstick from her desk, she crossed to the wall with the mirror and studied her reflection, then slowly slid the paint over her lips, her eyes meeting Vivian’s in the mirror. “And I know one in particular that you could put to good use.”
Vivian let out a breath, her eyes fixed on the reflection of Honor’s lips. “About who?”
