“I’d do anything to help Bea out,” Vivian said quietly, continuing their conversation from the dressing room. “He might say no. He might not be able to help, even if he wanted to. But I’m going to ask.”
Honor looked thoughtful as she nodded. “Let me know what he says, and if you find anything out,” she said. Her eyes drifted back to Vivian—was there an edge of longing to that look? Vivian could never be sure anymore—before her perfectly shaped brows drew together in a worried frown. It made Vivian shiver. Honor almost never let anyone see her worried. “You know why I can’t get involved yet, right?”
“I do.” And she did. The world of smoky dance floors and shady deals and drinks imported across state lines ran on what you knew and who owed you. Honor couldn’t waste favors if she wasn’t sure what had happened.
There was every chance Pearlie’s death was exactly what it seemed, though Vivian couldn’t blame her friend for wishing it was something else. And if asking for a favor at the coroner’s office would help Beafind her way through the suffocating layers of grief, Vivian would do it gladly.
But even if it turned out that Bea was right, and there was something off about her uncle’s death, Honor couldn’t risk getting involved until she had a better idea what had happened. If she angered the wrong people by looking into it, or doing something about it, then the Nightingale and everyone who depended on it would be in danger. None of them could afford that.
“The doc was probably right,” Honor said quietly. “And until we know otherwise, we treat it like sad news and nothing more. I don’t need folks getting scared.” She turned and gave Vivian a smile, her full red lips kicking up at the corners. Honor always smiled like she had a secret. “Which means you need to get back to work, pet.”
“No rest for the wicked,” Vivian said. If she took a step closer, she knew Honor would smell like vanilla and cinnamon and whiskey. But she stayed where she was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pretty Jimmy on the dance floor; when he caught her eye, he spun out his partner and used his free hand to blow her a kiss. Behind the bar, Danny was leaning on his elbows, making the leader of a group of wild girls blush as she ordered drinks for her friends. Pearlie used to stand right at the end of the bar, keeping an eye on things. He had only been there for a few months, but it already seemed emptier without his larger-than-life presence. Vivian swallowed down her own sadness. “I’m not likely to turn up anything surprising about Pearlie, am I?”
Honor had been about to turn away, but she paused. “I wouldn’t take that bet,” she said after a moment’s thought. “People will always surprise you if you look too closely at their lives. But the odds of… well, it’s most likely nothing.”
Vivian nodded. “It’s most likely nothing,” she repeated, trying to reassure herself as much as anything. She shivered, wondering what, exactly, had Bea so convinced that something wasn’t adding up about her uncle’s death. “But if Bea’s right, we’re gonna need your help.”
FOUR
Vivian woke to the smell of ham frying. For a moment, she thought she was in heaven.
Last spring, she hadn’t been sure that she and her sister, Florence, would be able to afford their rent for the rest of the year. The two-room tenement where they lived was cramped and ugly, but it had been their home for more than five years. The prospect of moving to one of the few cheaper places in the city—which were infinitely more cramped and ugly and dangerous than the dingy corner they currently called home—had left them both sick with worry.
But these days, Florence was making more money at the dressmaker’s shop where she sewed and Vivian handled deliveries. And since deliveries took up less time in a day than the sewing she had previously done, Vivian had the energy to work at the Nightingale too, which brought in even more each week.
They didn’t live like queens. They didn’t even live like a snug little middle-class family. They were still poor, still scrimping and saving. But they could breathe a little easier.
Vivian hoped that maybe, one day, things would get even betterfor them. But in the meantime, there was a roof over their heads that wasn’t going anywhere. And every so often, there was ham frying at breakfast.
The room’s single window was wide open, trying uselessly to catch a stray breeze. But only heat and humid air blew in, along with the smell of summer in the city—the reek of garbage that had piled up on the street, the odors of a dozen different breakfasts being cooked in the style of as many countries, the smells that had seeped into the wood and stone from years of families living too close together. Maybe it would rain, one of these days, and then for a glorious twenty-four hours the world around them would be washed clean.
Vivian lay still for one more minute before dragging herself out of bed.
She dressed quickly. These days, Florence got up first and made breakfast so Vivian could get a little extra sleep after her shifts at the Nightingale. But they both had to be at Miss Ethel’s dress shop by eight.
“Morning, Vivi,” Florence said, yawning, when Vivian finally made her way out of the bedroom they shared.
In spite of the fatigue still blurring her head, the greeting made Vivian feel warm inside. Growing up in an orphan home and making their way in an unfriendly world had built a towering series of walls between the sisters. Those walls were slowly coming down, brick by hesitant brick.
The return of her childhood nickname had been a wall Vivian hadn’t remembered was there until it had come down.
“Morning,” she replied, going to the coffeepot and pouring them both a cup. Black, of course—they still couldn’t afford sugar or milk for themselves, though they sometimes bought it for the neighbors. “I’m glad you didn’t wait up last night.”
“Woke up when you came in,” Florence said quietly, spearing thetwo paper-thin slices of ham from the frying pan and forking them onto plates alongside their toast. “I don’t think I’ll ever sleep through the sound of someone coming in and out of here.”
She said it without much worry, but Vivian knew that casual attitude had been hard to come by. “You were able to get back to sleep, though?” she asked, carrying the plates to the table. It took up most of the room, with a little space left over for Florence’s rocking chair in the corner.
“Yes.”
They sat down at the table together, a study in contrasts. They were both dressed well enough, in summer dresses that covered their shoulders and had the longest hems fashion would allow. Working at a dressmaker meant they were expected to look the part, but Miss Ethel didn’t want anyone thinking the girls from her shop were fast.
The similarities ended there. Vivian, her black hair stick straight and bobbed to her chin, looked exactly like the sort of girl who spent her nights in places that needed a password before they let you in. The sort of girl who kept secrets and could be ruthless with them. Florence, with her wavy brown hair kept long and pinned back, looked as demure as a painting. But when she needed it, she had a ruthless streak as fierce as Vivian’s own. That didn’t mean Vivian told her sister everything—they weren’t there yet. But they had always relied on each other, and now, bit by bit, they were learning to trust each other, too.
“Anything interesting happen last night?” Florence asked as they ate, and Vivian yawned into her coffee.
Vivian hesitated. She preferred to keep the seedier parts of life at the Nightingale as far away from her sister as possible. Florence didn’t even swear, much less drink or smoke or think of letting a stranger hold her close in the sweaty heat of a dance floor.
But Bea didn’t just belong to the world of the Nightingale. The Kelly sisters had known Bea’s family for years, trading help and favors,meals and jokes, taking care of each other when they needed to because no one else in the world was going to do it. Florence would be devastated if Vivian kept news about the Henrys from her.
