The Impossible Girl

by Lydia Kang

  “That didn’t take long,” a voice said, the same one that had first interrupted her boys. She wanted to cry inside—what had become of them? Who had been shot? Were they dead too?

  “What will we do with the innocents? Throw them in the grave?” another voice said.

  Bodies? No! her hearts screamed. They couldn’t be dead. Her boys. They couldn’t be.

  “We should sell them. University would take them, five apiece.”

  “No. Not tonight. Let the stiff ’uns rot here.”

  She heard them walk over to her, and someone seemed to be hovering closely.

  Don’t cry, Cora thought, praying that her eyes would obey. Don’t cry. Don’t breathe.

  She had to pretend to be dead. If she didn’t, they might kill her, and then there would be no hope at all. She held her breath and stayed as limp as possible. A hand touched her face and pulled her lower lip down.

  “No gold here,” the voice said, and the hand traveled over her neck, her bosoms, and then her waist, where it began tugging at the laces of her dress. There was a grunt of disgust. “She stinks like a barn.” More tugging at her dress.

  “No!” the other voice said, the one with authority, the one that likely shot the Duke. “They said not to undress the body. Leave it on.”

  “That’s no fun, ain’t it?”

  “Shut your mouth and do as I say. Roll her up in that cloth and load her on the wagon.”

  There was a quiet assent as she was dragged several feet. A rough, stiffened cloth was tucked around her arms, pinning them to her body, and she was rolled like a pastry until the cloth nearly smothered her face. But there was enough room to breathe. She was pulled off the ground and laid down on a hard surface, likely the wagon.

  “That one’s still breathing,” one of the men said.

  “He’ll be dead before morning. I’ve no more bullets to waste tonight.” She heard reins and a horse’s hooves stamping. “We’ve a delivery to make, gentlemen. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Everything was muffled. All Cora could do was concentrate on breathing against the dirty, stiff fabric wrapped about her. Her filthy dress was squeezed tight around her body, and every joint creaked from stiffness. The left side of her body was no longer numbed, but now it spasmed from disuse. And all the while, Cora toiled with the crushing ache in her hearts. Were her boys dead? Who would bury them and watch over them?

  Cora would, if she could. It would not be fair, if their bodies were pillaged heartlessly. She imagined someone laughing at Tom’s bare head with that fringe of hair, Otto’s cat tail being heartlessly thrown into the dirt, the Duke’s insensate body being tossed into a cart. She blamed herself. Why shouldn’t they receive the same fate as those they’d made their living from? Hadn’t she always thought that a body had best be used for something worthwhile, as the dead didn’t need it?

  But the thought of the Duke being dug up, or Tom, or Otto—it was too much. It wasn’t fair.

  Good God. What lies had she been telling herself all these years?

  A hard boot came down on her shoulder as one of the resurrection men rested his leg on her. And then all she could think was, What will they do when they realize I’m not dead?

  They traveled for some time, over the ferry again back into Manhattan. Everything was relatively quiet, so it must be deep into the night. There were no other sounds of horses or carriages, no omnibus drivers angrily yelling.

  The resurrection men were quiet, as they should be. Cora lifted her chin a little, which allowed her to keep the cloth away from her nose and mouth. The wagon stopped, pitching this way and that way as the men jumped off. The cloth around her legs was tugged hard, and she was pulled from the wagon and carried some distance.

  There were murmurs, and a door opening. A door shutting. Opening again, and more murmurs. She was carried downward, somewhere. She couldn’t smell much, but there was a distinct scent of something slightly sweet—like flowers. Her body was laid on something rather soft.

  Was she at the university? Would Theo be shocked to find that he’d purchased a live body? Or perhaps she was in some part of the basement at the Anatomical Museum. She would not be surprised if Duncan insisted on seeing her naked, before her dissection. And weak as she was, it would be too easy for him to smother her once her true state was known.

  Doors closed again, and it was quiet. She heard footsteps, and very gently, her wrappings were slowly peeled away. Finally, her body flopped with finality, open to the air and free of her covering.

  A hand touched her face, then her neck, against her left carotid artery. She couldn’t possibly hide that she was alive anymore, but she was terrified to open her eyes, so she didn’t. The hand traveled down her arm and pressed against her inner wrist, feeling her pulse.

  “Cora?” a voice spoke quietly.

  She knew that voice.

  Her eyes opened. Alexander sat on the edge of a thin pallet bed. A large bruise shone over his left eyebrow, a remnant of Puck’s attack. His eyes were wide, and he was shaking.

  “Alexander!” Cora cried out, and she reached for him. Her right arm shot forward, and her left, still weakened, flailed limply.

  “My God! You’re alive!” he said, and embraced her. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

  It took some time for Cora to explain what Alexander didn’t know. Her letter had said almost nothing, only that she’d contact him later. She told him how she’d decided to fake her death. The ruse had worked too well—and Suzette’s inability to stay at her side resulted in her accidental burial. She told him about Otto, and Tom, and the Duke, and cried fresh tears.

  “They tried to save me, and they’re dead. Or as good as dead,” Cora said through disjointed breaths.

  “I’ll go there as soon as you’re taken care of and see if they need help.”

  “We should go now!” she said, clutching his arm.

  “I need to care for you first, Cora.” He closed his eyes. “I thought you were dead. I went to your house, and that little boy, George, said word had spread that you’d been struck with brain fever. We found out you were going to the Evergreens, so I hired the resurrection men to get your body. I told them to make absolutely sure no one else touched you. I had no idea that your crew would be there. I’m so sorry. I just . . .” He ran his good hand through his silver-and-dark hair. “I cannot believe that you’re alive.”

  “I can’t either,” Cora said, grimacing. She lifted her left arm again, and the movement made her head swim. She made a timid fist. “I feel wretched. I had another apoplectic attack, but it doesn’t seem permanent so far.” She finally looked around her. She’d assumed she was in Alexander’s room, below the Grand Anatomical Museum, but this was a different room—smaller, darker. There was the low sleeping pallet, covered in a few blankets, and a small table nearby. An oil lamp glowed against the roughly plastered wall. “Where are we?”

  “My old studio.” Alexander stood up. “Duncan wouldn’t let me work on anything that didn’t end up in his museum, or his own cabinet, so any side work I’ve done has been here.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember.” Cora hardly recognized it, the room was so bare. But she knew there were two other rooms here—one with storage, and one where he did his sculpting. She’d never liked it, though—it was in the basement of a building near the Five Points, on Henry Street. Cheap as far as rent went, but because so much of the Five Points used to be a wet pond, it was always damp underground, with the wood rotting too early and plaster disintegrating before its time. There were no windows.

  Alexander stood and pointed to a basin and ewer on the stand behind him, plus a stack of clean cloths. “Here are some things so you can bathe. I have a dress that was used for a commissioned portrait years ago, but only one, and it’s a bit ridiculous. It will have to do until we can get more clothes for you. I’ve an old nightshirt you may wear while you rest.”

  Cora sat up weakly. “I ought to write to Suzette and let her know that I’m
all right.”

  “In time. Right now, everyone thinks you’re dead, and it’s safer that way.” Alexander winced a little when he turned to leave.

  “I didn’t even ask if you’re all right! I heard you were in the hospital.”

  “Yes. My head—they said I had a severe concussion of the brain. But I’ll be fine,” he said. “All that matters is you’re all right. Now, you need to clean up, and eat, and rest.”

  Cora’s eyes watered. She needed all of those things, and the offering of them was such a blessed relief that she released the breath she’d been holding—seemingly for days. Now, she could leave New York and not worry that shadows would be following her. She was safe. Finally.

  Alexander had provided a cotton nightshirt that was far too large for her, and after bathing, she lay back down. There was no bleeding, so perhaps the baby inside her had survived the onslaught of medicines and the physical strain. An absolute miracle. She said nothing to Alexander, though, when he brought her some nourishing broth, a biscuit, and some tea. She couldn’t see telling anyone for a while. Something in her felt that it was not a secret to be revealed lightly, and not right now.

  After she had taken several sips and swallows, Cora’s head ceased feeling like it was detached from her neck. She filled Alexander in on what had happened since they parted in the aftermath of Puck’s attack.

  “So, all the physicians now believe you are dead. That’s all that matters.” He gathered the soiled dishes, and Cora lay on the blanket-covered pallet. Alexander blew out the lamp. It was so very dark, almost as dark as the interior of the coffin had been. Cora’s hand clutched the rough wool beneath her. She feared sleep but wouldn’t say it aloud. Alexander stood at the doorway, dishes clinking lightly in his one arm.

  “You’re safe, Cora. Finally, safe.”

  “Alexander, please do see if you can find out whether the Duke is all right. Please.”

  “Of course I will. I promise. Try to get some sleep.”

  And with that, he closed the door, and Cora shut her eyes. Her life could begin again now. But there would be no more Suzette, no more Leah, no more Theodore. No more Otto, or Tom, and maybe no more of the Duke.

  She wondered whether the cost was worth it.

  When Cora awoke, her body was still aching and stiff, but she felt the clean bed linens under her hands, the clean cotton gown around her body. She was safe. She was warm. She wiggled her fingertips, right, then left, delighted that she could move them nearly equally. She rolled her left ankle and stretched her toes, a delicious sensation after such frightening weakness.

  The room was dark, but she could see some shadows and shapes. A three-legged stool nearby held the extinguished lamp. She could stand, gingerly, though she listed very slightly to the left. She carefully limped to the door but found that it was locked.

  She knocked gently.

  “Alexander,” she called. All was quiet. “Alexander!” she called out louder, rapping her knuckles hard on the thick oak door.

  Nothing.

  He must have locked the door to be safe. Perhaps the front door was not secure for some reason. After all, her existence was a secret. She felt for the doorknob, and her fingers located a tiny keyhole beneath. She felt carefully along the walls, and found the table against the wall that held the ewer and basin. Below it was another shelf, which held two books. Not knowing what they said in the dark, she tore out several pages and silently promised Alexander she would sew the pages back in, or use a good paste to repair them.

  Cora slipped a piece of paper under the door, then two more, until she’d covered the span of floor just outside the door. She tore another small piece of paper and rolled it up tight and thin, and carefully poked it into the keyhole. She felt the key on the other side dislodge, then fall with a clank to the floor. One by one, she pulled each piece of paper back into the room. Hopefully the key had landed on one of them. And it had.

  She unlocked the door. Outside of the tiny bedroom, the basement of the building was dark. There was one room across the way—a tiny kitchen—and at one end of the hallway a storage room with cloth-covered armatures, mounds of wax, and tiny pots of paint. Reds, ochres, and bright greens.

  “Alexander?” she called.

  She walked down the hallway and felt the air open up to a larger space. The studio. The warm scent of beeswax met her, along with the smokiness of fireplace ash and dampness seeping through the walls. She made her way to a table where Alexander’s sculpting tools were laid out: Thin clay paddles and shapers, some as thin as lancets. A thin wire bound to two short sticks, for cutting through large slabs of clay and blocks of wax. She groped her way to the fireplace and found a box of matches. Atop the mantel was a candlestick with a waxy stub within it. She lit the match, and soon the candle began to burn brightly.

  A dark shadow scurried past her. A rat. She shivered and held the candle aloft.

  The studio had several wax figurines, but many of them were in pieces, either in the process of being made or destroyed; it was hard to tell. Cora drew closer to a piece lying prone on a long wooden slab. She pulled the cloth away and held her candle aloft.

  It was a woman’s figure, lying down with her hands clasped together between her bosoms. It was most certainly wax, which was strange. Alexander said he did mostly his clay and marble sculpting here. The figure was entirely naked, not unlike a statue she might see on display at the Vauxhall Gardens, like a dryad with flowers crowning her hair. But this was no Greek statue. The hair was black, for one thing, and very short—short like a boy’s.

  Short like Cora’s. Her hearts thumped erratically, either in warning or as a sequela of the medicinals still lingering in her system. She leaned over to look at the face.

  Dark eyes only half-open, as if the figure were waking up, falling asleep, or in ecstasy. The short hair was beautifully painted, with rich brown highlights against the sooty black, as if the sun were reflecting against the strands. The eyes were slightly narrow, with black eyelashes painstakingly embedded into the lids to mimic reality. Cora touched the hair on the figure’s head. She was wrong—it wasn’t painted. It was real human hair, each strand embedded separately and carefully cut to look exactly like Cora’s.

  The likeness nauseated her.

  “Duncan must have ordered it,” Cora murmured, and shuddered at her own mention of his name. Though why Alexander would work on it here, as opposed to his studio at the museum, she had no idea. This nearly naked version was the same size as Cora and looked far too real, as opposed to the tiny doll-like figurine. A real linen cloth had been artfully twisted to cover its upper thighs, twisting prettily between its breasts and over its shoulder. She wondered that Alexander hadn’t destroyed it like the others.

  Nearby, there was another figure covered in cloth, and she gently tugged at the fabric. Underneath was yet another likeness of Cora. Same short blackish-brown hair, same stature, but this one was completely unlike the poetic figure of the other sculpture, which swooned almost romantically, in the fashion of the European wax artists.

  This one was in the style of the English wax artists—shockingly realistic, with all the grotesque allure of the truth. The figure was lying on its back, feet parted and splayed. Bruises lined its neck like a collarette of blue flowers, and its eyes were only half-closed, staring into the nothingness of the air above. Its breasts lay small across its chest, and more bruises purpled its rib cage. There was no poetry in this figure.

  As with the other, it appeared that the hair was real human hair. Cora reached down to touch it, and it felt sticky. She took her hand away, holding the candle to her fingertips.

  A reddish hue smeared across her fingertips.

  “Paint,” Cora said to herself, and she wiped her fingers on her gown, leaving a rust-colored blur. She touched the figure’s cheek, wondering how Alexander had been able to make the skin look so very real. It even sprang back with an unexpected elasticity.

  Because this wasn’t hard, sculpted wax.
/>   It was dead flesh.

  AUDREY MARCH

  He was a man with particular tastes.

  Working for Madame Beck was thorny drudgery. Every night, a different swell, wearing a fine suit and owning a mouth like a backed-up gutter. Every night, more rum to make it all a little less terrible. But I had a warm bed under a roof, and the bread was good. Madame liked us well fed—no slamkins, scraggly mabs, nor cows in her house. No stargazing for me, walking the streets looking for work.

  “A man doesn’t want to hold a dog bone,” she’d say.

  And then one day, Madame Beck called me into her parlor. She situated herself like a queen in the armchair trimmed with gold and emerald velvet.

  “I’ve a new one for you, Audrey,” she’d said. “A good prospect for the both of us.”

  “Then send him in,” I said, but she said no.

  “From now on, he’s your only swell. The only one. You go with him to his house, when he wants. But he wants no one but you. And he’s very strict about it. Said he’d have you followed to be sure you’re exclusive.”

  “How much?” I asked. For this kind of work, to be a lady bird—a woman who sells herself exclusively to one man—it must be worth it.

  “More than enough for your bed and bread, and for you to please him whenever he wishes.” She put a pipe in her mouth and lit a match, inhaling and letting the smoke form a screen before her face. “There’s another thing. He wants you to wear this, half the time.” She took a bundle of fabric and tossed it at me. I separated the pieces of clothing, and held them up one by one.

  A pair of men’s boots. Trousers, old and stained. A brown shirt and cap. And a long piece of cloth.

  “That,” Madame Beck said, “is to bind your bosoms when you wear these clothes.”

  “Eh! He’s a bugger! You ought to ask Pretty John instead.”