Just walking down the street was an exercise in fear. Vivian had no idea how many people were involved with the letters, so she had no idea whether they had the manpower to follow the people they were trying to rob. They had to get around enough to pry into people’s lives, otherwise they’d never know to ask for things like Mrs. Kaminski’s candlesticks or the dress from Miss Ethel’s shop. But those were the sort of details that could be picked up from gossip. Something like Pearlie’s cash, though… he wouldn’t have been talking about that, not even somewhere like the Nightingale. That took some doing to unearth.
And who was to say they didn’t also do the sort of work that included following Florence or Vivian around, making sure neither of them went to the police?
But they couldn’t stay in their home, waiting for trouble to find them.
The back of Vivian’s neck prickled for five blocks from the hotel before she saw a cab pull over for its passengers to climb out. Grabbing Florence’s hand and ignoring her suddenoofof surprise, she towed her sister toward it at a half run and shoved her into the back seat as soon as it was empty. That earned her an offended scowl from the suited gentleman just emerging, but Vivian ignored him as she slid in after her sister and slammed the door shut.
She gave directions for two blocks east of the Nightingale, then heaved a sigh of relief once they were on their way.
“Can we afford this?” Florence’s whisper was so quiet her lips moved almost silently, as she looked toward the cabbie.
“Today, I don’t think we can afford not to do it,” Vivian whispered back, squeezing her sister’s hand. Anyone who had been keeping an eye on the Kelly sisters would know they didn’t waste money on things like cabs. If therehadbeen someone following them—if—they wouldn’t have been prepared for a cab ride. And Vivian hadn’t seen any other cabs on the block when they climbed in.
“Where are we going?” Florence asked nervously, glancing out the window.
Vivian leaned her head against the glass of the window, wishing it was cooler. “Somewhere we can stay for a while. I hope.”
“What about work?” Florence asked, always practical. “We can’t just disappear for days. Not if we want to keep our jobs. And not if…” She swallowed, clearly thinking of the beautiful dress that someone wanted her to steal.
“You leave that to me,” Vivian said. “I think I can keep going, since the letter wasn’t for me. And anyway, Leo’s taking care of things, so it shouldn’t need to be for long. I’ll just say you’re under the weather and need a few days at home to recover.”
“She’ll never go for that,” Florence argued, shaking her head. “She doesn’t believe in days off.”
It was true. The last time one of the seamstresses was too sick to come to work for more than a day, Miss Ethel had told her not to come back and promptly found a replacement. There were, as their boss reminded them often, hundreds of girls in New York willing to hunch over a sewing machine for hours every day, making pretty things for people who lived a life of luxury far beyond their dreams, if it meant they got paid at the end of the week.
“Miss Ethel won’t argue with me,” Vivian said. She could feel Florence’s eyes on her, feel the unspoken questions like a physical touch. But she didn’t look over, and eventually she heard her sister sigh and settle into her seat. When Vivian finally glanced at her, Florence was staring out the window, head tipped back.
“What are you looking at?” Vivian asked.
“I’m trying to see the sky,” Florence answered. The cabbie honked at a pair of men who had staggered into the street, arguing drunkenly though it was still only mid-afternoon. “I know it’s there somewhere. But it sure can be hard to spot it sometimes.”
“So, can we stay here?”
Vivian watched Honor hopefully. They were in her apartment above the Nightingale—past the second locked door on the landing, up the rest of the flight of stairs, and behind another locked door that hid a surprisingly domestic space. Honor didn’t stay there all the time—as Vivian had learned after a police raid, there were times it was safer for her to be away from her club. But most of the time, the upper floor of the building was her home. And it would be, Vivian had explained in a breathless rush, the safest place for her and Florence to stay until they could go home again.
She had a hard time meeting Honor’s eyes as she spoke, too conscious of how they had left things between them the night before. Vivian wished she had been less honest, less blunt. But she was also sure that, no matter how uncertain things were, Honor cared enough about her—as an employee, if nothing else—to want to help.
Honor gave her a long, considering stare, then looked past her to where Florence waited. Vivian glanced back at her sister, sitting with her legs pulled tight toward her body and her suitcase leaning against them. Honor was seated in front of her fireplace, though it was unlit, with the two of them across from her. On the low table in front of them sat a sweating pitcher of lemonade, a surprising concession to the summer heat from Honor, who Vivian would have never pictured drinking something so wholesome.
Florence’s eyes were wide as she stared at the club owner. Vivian glanced down at her own glass of lemonade, trying not to grimace. She couldn’t blame Florence; Honor was a lot to take in the first time you saw her, and not just because of the way she dressed. Everything about her, the way she held herself or spoke or even moved, turned heads, made you want to watch her until you could figure her out. But she hoped Honor wasn’t offended by her sister’s obvious surprise.
“No.”
Vivian’s head snapped back up, and now she was the one who stared at Honor, dumbfounded. “No?” she repeated.
“Not because I don’t want to help,” Honor said gently. She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees and her hands clasped in front of her. “I just don’t think staying here would be safer. Think about it, Vivian. If whoever sent that letter knew so much about where Florence works, who’s to say they don’t know as much about where you work?” She shook her head. “I can’t stop people from coming and going without shutting the club down, which I can’t afford to do. And if the wrong person made it past one of my boys and found their way up here…”
“Then what can we do?”
Honor stood and paced toward the window, frowning out at the rooftops and brick walls that surrounded them. It was propped open,a rickety electric fan whirring away. Vivian felt like she was being smothered, like she was drowning, like maybe it would be easier if she melted away and didn’t have to worry anymore about keeping the person she loved most in the world safe. Beside her, Florence said nothing, her lips pressed together in a thin, nervous line.
“Downtown,” Honor said at last, turning back to them. “You and Danny barely ever see each other outside the Nightingale, right? Unless he’s delivering a message from me. Even if someone knows you work here, the odds of them thinking to find you there are small.”
“He doesn’t have his own place,” Vivian pointed out. “And the odds of his folks being okay with some strange girls staying there are small, too.”
Honor grimaced. “Won’t know until you ask. He’s downstairs running inventory right now. And if it doesn’t work, we’ll figure out something else, I promise.” She went to the cabinet in the corner and, to Vivian’s surprise, took out a small stack of cash. “Here,” she said, holding it out. “I’ll get someone downstairs to call you a cab so you’re not walking away from here.”
Florence, at last, spoke up. “Do you mean Mr. Chin?” she asked. Vivian could see her sister’s hands trembling around her glass, but Florence’s voice was steady.
