Was Rose on that train? Would she board another before Sylvie could reach her? Was she already too late? Any peace she’d felt during those fleeting hours of slumber vanished, leaving nothing but questions in its place.
Unable to finish her bread, she pushed it away. Be still, and know that I am God, she repeated to herself. She persuaded her pulse to slow, and begged God to show Himself trustworthy. Perhaps it was not a proper prayer, for the Bible already said He was. But right now, it was all she could manage.
Tiny Tim batted at something on the floor near the front door. Sylvie left the kitchen table and bent to retrieve it. It was an envelope, and the handwriting on the outside was Kristof’s.
She withdrew a note.
Dear Sylvie,
I pray your dreams were sweet.
I have two concerts today but will return home as soon as I can. Please don’t do anything rash without me, or I’ll cry chicken. Once I return, we can talk about doing something rash together. Or even better, something reasonable.
Wait for me.
Yours,
Kristof
Her lips curved at Kristof’s attempt to make her smile by mangling the idiom she was certain he now understood.
A knock on the door jolted through her. Gritting her teeth, she set the note on the table and smoothed her hair. She hated how easily she startled lately. The only other times her nerves had been this fragile were after the Great Fire, then after Louise and Father died in the same season. Loss, she supposed, stripped her ability to cope. How maddening it was that at the times she needed her wits the most, they scattered.
The knock again, louder this time. “Miss Townsend?” Lottie called.
She opened the door, surprised to see both Lottie and Ivan, the ten-year age difference between them sharply pronounced.
“Come in,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today, but I’m glad you’re here.”
“Well, so is Ivan.” Lottie glanced up at her brother. Her black hair was braided into a crown that encircled her head, her face scrubbed to a healthy pink shine. She wore Rose’s blue-and-white gingham dress again, this time hemmed properly. “We’re here to collect my wages. You weren’t here yesterday when I was finished.”
“Of course.” Sylvie should have remembered this. “It’s good to see you too, Ivan. You get the weekends off from your new job, I take it?”
“I don’t work today.”
“Is it going well? Your employment?” she prodded.
Ivan hooked his thumbs behind his suspenders. His brown hair curled over the tops of his ears and his collar. “If you wouldn’t mind, Miss Townsend, the wages? I know you’ve got to get downstairs and open the bookshop. We won’t keep you.”
Sylvie glanced at the clock, annoyed that he was right. Time was slipping away from her. “Lottie, did you happen to leave my apartment door unlocked yesterday for any length of time?”
The girl paled. “No, ma’am. Did someone steal your money, too? Am I not getting paid today?” She looked up at Ivan. “I swear I kept everything locked up, even while I was inside, just like you told me to.”
“I haven’t been robbed,” Sylvie assured her. “It’s just that Tiny Tim has come home. The cat. He was here, inside the locked apartment, when I arrived home yesterday, and I wondered if you knew anything about that. Was he here when you were cleaning?”
“You have a cat now?” She spied the little black-and-white furball in the corner of the parlor. “Oh, there he is! No, he wasn’t here when I was yesterday. Is he friendly? Can I pet him?”
“Of course you may. What time did you leave?”
“I finished here around noon and finished at the Hoffmans’ around three o’clock,” Lottie tossed over her shoulder. She approached Tiny Tim slowly, then crouched and scratched between his ears.
“I’ll be right back with your wages, Lottie.” She nodded to Ivan, who remained by the door.
As Sylvie returned with the money, Lottie pinched a small object out from under one of Tiny Tim’s paws and stood.
“He shouldn’t play with this,” she said. “He could swallow it if he isn’t careful.” She frowned as she examined it.
“I’ll take it.” Sylvie held out her hand.
Wordlessly, Lottie dropped a button into Sylvie’s palm, jutting her chin at Ivan.
He was staring at the birdcage on the stand. Something about it seemed to trouble him.
“Ivan?” Sylvie tried. “You disapprove of the bird?”
“At least it’s in a cage where it belongs, right, Ivan?” A trace of sarcasm threaded Lottie’s tone.
“Enough.” He strode over to them both, his worn-out boots imprinting the rug. “We should be going. Matka is grateful, thank you. So is the doctor who needs to be paid.” He reached for Lottie’s money.
Sylvie bristled at his grab for wages his sister had earned, even though she understood the money was for the family’s welfare. If Lottie didn’t complain about it, Sylvie wouldn’t make things worse by doing so either.
Then she saw that his sleeve cuff was pinned together in the absence of a button. The one closed in her fist matched the one on his other sleeve.
A chill washed over her. She stepped back.
“Miss Townsend. It’s getting late.” Ivan reached farther, almost lunging for the money. In doing so, his sleeve inched up on his wrist, revealing bright red scratches. Cat scratches.
“Oh, Ivan,” she whispered. “What have you done?”
His jaw hardened. But surely he could see that she wouldn’t be fooled any longer. It was Ivan who had brought Tiny Tim back. Ivan knew where Rose was.
“Are you helping her?” Sylvie asked. “Or are you hiding her?”
Lottie’s lips parted. “Rose. You know where she is.”
The air thinned, and time stretched as she awaited his response. Answers were so close she could almost taste them. She clenched her cold fingers at her side, crumpling Lottie’s money.
“I did what I had to do,” Ivan said at last, “for my family.”
“But is she safe?” Sylvie pressed, the need to know billowing hot inside her. She passed Lottie’s earnings to her and clutched Ivan’s rough, calloused hands. She searched his face for the person he’d been before his father died and he’d been forced to grow up overnight.
“Ivan.” She called to the tenderness buried inside him still. “I have known you since you were small. You have always been responsible, loyal to your family. And you have always been kind to Rose.”
Hadn’t he? Doubt wound around Sylvie and squeezed. These hands that had grown broad and strong at the stockyards could break her bones. She had no idea who he was or why. She had misjudged men before.
Sweat pricked her skin. “Tell me the truth. Help me understand what’s happening.”
“You think I understand what’s happening?” he growled.
“I think you understand far more than you’re letting on, and infinitely more than I do. Please. At least tell me if she’s safe. Is she still in Chicago?” Desperation serrated her voice.
The movement was so slight, it was almost imperceptible. But it was a nod. His stiffness faltered, and the ice in his eyes began to melt.
“Thank God.” Sylvie squeezed his hands. “Where?”
At once, his face shuttered. “It’s time to go.” He broke free of her and turned to Lottie, reaching for her money.
“No!” Lottie shouted. “Not until you tell her the truth!”
He pried the money from his sister’s fist. She clung to his arm, trying to make him stay.
Sylvie planted herself between Ivan and the doorway to block his retreat. “Rose tried to tell me where she was. She tried writing me a note but couldn’t finish it. Help me find her!”
He wasn’t listening. With his back to her, he was struggling with Lottie. His elbow thrust backward, splitting Sylvie’s lip.
“I said it’s time to go!” Ivan shoved Sylvie out of his path, sending her sprawling. The single thought racin
g through her mind was Rose. Had he done this to her? Had he done worse?
He may have. And he could do it again.
Lottie was shouting, grasping his arm again, pulling him backward.
“Let me go, Lottie.” Ivan brimmed with warning.
Jaw throbbing, Sylvie pushed herself up. She had to stop him, stop this. Ivan could easily injure Lottie in his urgency to leave. There was no way she could prevent it, and yet she had to. Kristof was gone. The Hoffmans wouldn’t even hear them from the fourth floor, and no one was in the bookstore below.
“Ivan, don’t hurt her!” Sylvie’s protest fell to the floor, powerless.
Then footsteps sounded, and a man strode through the door and straight to Ivan, who still had both hands on Lottie. The man slammed his fist into Ivan’s nose with a sickening crunch, then twisted the young man’s arms behind him and held him fast.
Sylvie gasped, and the good Samaritan turned, his eyebrows spiking, then plunging before he tightened his grip on Ivan’s arms. “You’ve assaulted my maid and my landlady. And you’ve woken me up on a Saturday morning when I could have been sleeping!” Unshaven, rumpled, and smelling like stale perfume and last night’s whiskey, Gregor winked at Sylvie. Lipstick smudged his ear, and his complexion was almost as ruddy.
She was stunned. Tasting blood from her lip, she hurried to Lottie. “Are you all right?” she asked.
Lottie sniffed, swiping the back of her hand beneath her nose. “He tore my dress. My best dress.”
“We’ll mend it,” Sylvie promised. “We can mend it together right here if you like.”
“Excuse me, ladies,” Gregor said above Ivan’s groaning. “Anyone care to tell me what I’ve walked into here? Quietly, though. You wouldn’t believe the size of the elephant sitting on my head just now.”
Lottie scowled. “My brother—”
“Hold on,” Gregor said. “This is your brother? Don’t tell me I got up for a sibling squabble.”
“No.” Sylvie held out a hand to stop Gregor from releasing his captive. “Ivan knows where Rose is. He won’t tell me.”
All levity fled Gregor’s expression. “Is that right? Need a little convincing, is that it, Ivan?” His eyes were almost all pale blue, his pupils alarmingly small.
“Please.” Sylvie took her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the blood from Ivan’s face. His nose was already swollen and purpling.
He winced. “It’s broken!”
She feared it was. “Please,” she said again.
“Hear that, Ivan?” Gregor asked. “That was your conscience speaking. Let’s have a seat, and you tell us what you know.”
Sylvie dabbed at Ivan’s neck, catching the blood before it stained his collar. “Wouldn’t Rose want you to?”
He and Gregor sat. Lottie took the armchair, and Sylvie stayed on her feet, glancing at the clock, then back to Gregor, wondering why he wasn’t at Music Hall right now.
“Ah,” Gregor said. “Lucky for you, Miss Townsend, my brother fired me Thursday and threatened to evict me yesterday. So, Lottie, you’re not the only one in disagreement with your brother, eh?”
Kristof hadn’t said anything about this to her. “You’re not serious,” Sylvie said.
“Not usually, no.” Gregor chuckled. “This time, I’m afraid I am.”
This didn’t feel right. None of it. She set aside her disappointment that Kristof hadn’t shared this news with her himself. Set aside her regret at not giving him the chance, spending all their conversation on her own concerns, instead. What she was left with in this moment was a pair of men who both happened to be desperate in their own ways. And desperate men made reckless decisions.
So did desperate women.
Memories of last night surfaced, and she saw herself then as Kristof must have. He’d been right to hold her back, talk her down, before she had done anything she might regret. What would he do in this situation? She was sure he would use words, not fists, not force.
But Ivan was subdued now. She sat on the other side of him, holding the handkerchief to his nose once more.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Miss Townsend,” he said gruffly. “Or you, Lottie.”
Lottie’s mouth was a stitch on her face as she pinched the tear in her sleeve together. Tiny Tim leapt onto her lap and batted at a lock of hair that had fallen out of her braid. Releasing her sleeve, she stroked his back.
“I’m out of my head, sometimes,” Ivan said. “We need that money, is all. And I needed us to leave. I’m not supposed to say . . .”
“Ooh, that’s a bad sign, Ivan.” Gregor clucked his tongue. “Secrets are dangerous. Especially the kind you’re keeping. Am I right?”
From the street below, someone knocked on the locked door to the bookshop and called out. Sylvie ignored her customer, studying Ivan instead. He shifted on the sofa, gaze riveted on the birdcage.
“What is it?” she prompted.
Lottie curled her legs beneath her, nestling deeper in the armchair. “You’re thinking of the bird you caught when I was too little to remember, aren’t you? Matka told me the story.”
Ivan skewered her with a glare.
“Go on, tell them about it. If you don’t, I will.” Lottie continued petting Tiny Tim, who rested contentedly in her lap, purring. “Ivan found a sparrow that had gotten into our tenement building. He was thirteen. He and his friends had nothing better to do than torture the poor thing, so they—”
“That’s not at all what happened,” Ivan blurted.
“You trapped it.”
“I was trying to help.”
“Well, that didn’t work out, did it?”
Ivan’s face darkened to a deep red. “Nothing better to do, you say. When I was thirteen, I had just become the man of the house and was working to support you and Matka. When I found that bird, yes, I put it in a box. The other boys wanted to pluck out its feathers or feed it terrible things, but I wouldn’t let them. I kept it safe in that box, not letting anyone else get near it.”
“It would have been safer if you had just let it go.” Lottie looked at Sylvie. “It couldn’t breathe, and it died.”
“That’s not true either.” But the slant of Ivan’s shoulders hinted at guilt. “I’m not stupid, and I’m not cruel. I cut holes in the box and put grass and leaves in it, and worms for it to eat. But when I finally decided to let it go, it wouldn’t leave. It just stayed in a corner of that box even though the lid was off.”
“And it died,” Lottie said. “That’s the end of the story, no matter what the middle is. Birds were never meant to be shut away.”
The parlor warmed. A breeze reached through the room, and a dried petal from the bouquet on the mantel twirled off and landed near Ivan’s feet.
Sylvie picked it up, fingering its brittle edge. “Neither were roses.” She waited until he finally met her gaze. “You can set her free, Ivan. Can’t you?”
Silence swelled thick and dense, until Gregor spoke into it. “The police are already investigating. I could tell them to investigate you, and you know how they feel about immigrant troublemakers. How would it help your family if you’re arrested?”
Placing the rose petal on Ivan’s knee, Sylvie wiped his neck one more time with her handkerchief. “It’s not too late for you to do the right thing on your own.”
Ivan huffed a dark laugh. “Right for her or for me?”
“For both of you,” Sylvie said, heart in her throat. “Rewrite the ending of this story. The captor can become the savior.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sylvie let Ivan go.
Someone else might call it naïveté, a reckless hope, or an abiding belief in mankind. But she had seen the dark corners of the human heart, including her own, and couldn’t explain her action in any of those ways. The only way she could account for it was faith. The opposite of fear, just as Kristof had said. Faith not in man, but in God.
If faith was blind, it was only in the sense that she could not see the ways God would choo
se to work in the future. But she’d seen Him work in the past. How else could she reconcile every small step that had led to what transpired in her parlor this morning? She didn’t believe in luck, nor did she hold with coincidence. There were too many of them to call it anything other than Providence orchestrating the details.
The bookstore was all but empty now. Tessa had the day off. A pair of sisters pulled apart one of Anna’s soft pretzels in the bistro area, each of them reading their newly acquired novels. Another customer, Mrs. Murphy, deliberated in the poetry section, purple ostrich feather quivering from her hatband as she scanned the spines. Sylvie returned to the counter to unpack the most recent box of inventory, reconciling each title against the packing list.
That finished, she set the empty box on the floor, and Tiny Tim promptly jumped into it. She fingered the gilt-edged pages of A Tale of Two Cities and thought of the character Lucie Manette Darnay. Lucie was the only one able to pull her father back to reality after his years in a French prison wounded his mind. For this alone Sylvie could relate to her, having done the same for her own father. Now, as she considered the months Lucie spent waiting and worrying while her husband was locked away, and otherwise doing nothing, Sylvie had new insights to add to such an experience.
Kristof had been right last night. “Just because we are still doesn’t mean that God is. We can rely on Him.” Letting Ivan go was her acknowledgment of this truth. When Rose left, it wasn’t the first time Sylvie’s world had spun out of control. It only reminded her that she was never in charge of it to begin with. It was a lesson she’d learned when the Great Fire took nearly everything from her in one night. A lesson too easily forgotten, she supposed, when she and Chicago rebuilt.
Mrs. Murphy beckoned.
Sylvie met her at the counter. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Even more.” She slid two volumes toward Sylvie, one of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poems and another of Walt Whitman’s. “The trouble is deciding which to leave behind for next time.”
“Did you see the special we’re running right now? Get a free souvenir ticket to the World’s Fair for Chicago Day with a purchase of three dollars or more. The celebration will be October 9, in honor of the anniversary of the Great Fire. You wouldn’t believe how many special events are planned.”
Shadows of the White City Page 27