“You make it sound like your life is completely separate from mine.”
“It is,” she had replied, and Ivan had stepped back as though struck, then lunged.
Kristof hated to think what would have happened next if he hadn’t been there to block Ivan and see him out. On his ear. Apparently, Kristof’s remark about Sydney Carton’s heroics had missed its mark if Ivan was still pursuing her.
“No,” Sylvie said, “Ivan hasn’t sent any more notes that I’m aware of. She told me she wouldn’t read them if he did. He’s in her way, she says, and she doesn’t have time for that.” She traced the wheel’s gigantic revolution, her gaze fixed on the car carrying her entire family. Up, up, she followed the movement, until her head rested lightly on his outstretched arm. “I’m watching her float away, Kristof.” Heartbreak spilled from the cracks in her voice.
He was tempted to point to the apex and tell her the car was coming back to her. But the wheel was not a trustworthy metaphor.
“You’re giving her wings and the freedom to use them,” he told her. “Choice is one of the greatest gifts there is.” He’d tried to give Sylvie freedom, too. He was still waiting to see if she would ever choose him, the way he’d long ago chosen her.
Straightening, she angled to face him, her eyes glassy. “Who could have guessed what this summer held? Will we both lose the ones we love most in the same short span of time?”
Kristof shook his head. He twirled Sylvie’s wayward lock of hair around his finger. “I love Gregor. He’ll always be my brother. But he’s not the one I love most.” He cupped her smooth, sun-warmed cheek and held his breath while she took this in, wondering if he’d played a wrong note.
Her lips parted in surprise. “Kristof,” she whispered, tears lining her lashes. She covered his hand with hers and leaned into it. Her smile held a symphony of hope.
After Olive’s birthday party, once Sylvie was alone in her room, she still held the feeling of Kristof’s touch, still heard the words he’d said and the words he hadn’t.
He loved her. There was no mistaking this translation. Kristof loved her in a way that no one else ever had before. Knees going soft, she sank onto the edge of her bed. Her own eyes stared back at her from a portrait Meg had painted right after her hands healed from the burns she’d suffered during the Great Fire. The girl in the portrait was so young, her eyes bright and eager with what she thought was true, exhilarating love. Twenty-two years had passed since then.
Sylvie removed her hat. Before the looking glass on the wall, she inspected the coarse grey hairs sparkling at her part, the softening of her jawline. The fine webs at her eyes when she smiled.
The girl in the portrait knew nothing of love.
The woman in the mirror did.
A knock tapped her door. “Mimi? Can we talk?”
“Of course.” Sylvie followed Rose into the parlor.
Rose had changed into a nightdress embroidered with little blue flowers. Magdalena’s shawl draped her shoulders. It was the first time she’d worn it since that first letter arrived from Jozefa more than two weeks ago.
She settled into the sofa. “Sit with me.”
After turning on a lamp, Sylvie joined her. “Did you have fun today?” Tiny Tim stretched out on the rug at their feet.
“Mmm. Loads.” Lips tilted, Rose worked on braiding her hair for sleep. “I saw you and Mr. Bartok.”
Instantly, Sylvie’s cheeks flamed hot. Especially the one Kristof had touched so tenderly. Her hand went to the spot, as though she could hide that sweet moment or keep it for herself. “On the bench, you mean?”
“Everywhere. I see you together and I wonder why I never noticed it before. He’s nice, Mimi. I like him. I like him for you.”
Sylvie allowed a small smile. “I like him, too.” She fumbled for words. I think he loves me, she didn’t say. I think I love him. I think this love may be greater than the sum of my objections. It was too grand a revelation to confess right now, one she would take to bed with her and ponder while crickets played outside, and she would wonder if Kristof in his room directly above hers was thinking of her, too. She wondered if he worried he’d said too much.
He had not.
And she had said too little.
Vexed at herself, she began pulling pins from her hair and raked her fingers over her scalp, massaging the places that had been pulled too tight. “We care for each other a great deal.”
Laughter tumbled out of Rose. “Obviously.” She held up a hand when Sylvie opened her mouth to speak. “It’s all right, Mimi. Your heart is so big. I know there’s room in there for both of us.” Her slender fingers flashed over her hair, tying the braid’s end with a blue ribbon.
“Thank you,” Sylvie said quietly. “I think you’re right.”
“Of course I am.” But the smirk Sylvie expected didn’t follow. Instead, Rose’s countenance sagged.
“What is it?”
Rose crossed her arms. “Hazel and I had such a scare today. We lost Olive at Hagenbeck’s Animal Show.”
“What?” Confusion kept alarm at bay. Sylvie, Kristof, Meg, and Nate had waited outside the animal enclosure, saving on the fares. Forty minutes after Walter, Hazel, Rose, and Olive had entered, they had all returned.
Rose bit her lower lip and burrowed deeper into the corner of the sofa, folding her legs beneath her. “She was with Hazel and me for a while, and then she went to join Walter instead. Or we thought she did. Later we found Walter, but she wasn’t with him. I was terrified. I didn’t even think my legs would carry me as we frantically searched for her. It wasn’t five minutes later that we found her, but, Mimi, I keep thinking that panic was what you felt when you thought I was missing, too. Only you felt it for weeks, not just minutes.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry for doing that to you. I’m so very sorry. Will you forgive me?”
The words spread over a wound in Sylvie that had so far been untended. A balm. A promise of healing to come. “Of course, dear. I already have.” She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped Rose’s face. “It’s all right now. You’re safe. Olive is safe.”
Nodding, Rose drew a shuddering breath.
“Olive loves exploring, just as much as you did when you were a child.” Sylvie asked if Rose remembered the two times she’d slipped away.
“I remember.” Her expression pulled into grave lines. “I wasn’t just exploring. I was searching for my father. I wasn’t lost. I was trying to find my family.”
Sylvie felt a melting in her spine.
Rose had never stopped searching. She had never been truly lost. She had only been lost to Sylvie.
And Sylvie had lost sight of something else. The knowledge that she had only ever been a steward of this child’s life. A temporary waystation. Nothing more. She tried to nod in acknowledgment of Rose’s confession, but her head, unbearably heavy, would not lift after it dipped.
Tears clotted in her throat. “Magdalena’s shawl,” she said at last. “Why are you wearing it again?”
Rose brushed the fringe with her fingertips. “It wasn’t Magdalena’s. Not at first. Mother told me in her last letter that this was the shawl she wrapped me in when she surrendered me to the orphanage. That’s how she knew, when she saw this shawl, that I was the Rozalia she’d given up. And the one she can no longer live without.”
Ah. A great, long sigh exhaled from Sylvie through the fissure that had opened at the Polish Café when Rose first called Jozefa her mother. She emptied herself through this tear, pushing out every expectation and false hope until there was nothing left but a vacuum. Closing her eyes, Sylvie opened her palms in a gesture of release. She gave up clutching, grasping, seizing. She gave up filling herself with Rose.
It was over. She was empty. Fill me, Lord, she prayed. Fill me with Your love for her. Not mine.
Sylvie opened her eyes and found herself stretching her fingers backward, just as Meg did to combat the contracture of scar tissue that would otherwise shape her hands into claw
s. Sylvie’s heart was not so different. Its natural bent was to hold. Letting go, she knew, would not be a onetime exercise, but a habitual fight. But for Rose’s good, she would do it.
All of this she realized with a clarity so sharp it brought physical pain.
Banishing her own desires, Sylvie steadied herself to speak. “I love you, Rose,” she began. “More than I ever thought possible. Selfishly, I want you to be here in my life.” But she would not manipulate and trap like Jozefa had, or use feelings like weapons, like Ivan. Nor would she march and shout like Beth. “But you’re old enough to decide the course of your own future. I’m grateful for the time God gave me with you. You have my blessing.” She nearly choked on the words. “You’re free. You’re free to choose your mother.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MONDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1893
Lake Michigan at his back, Kristof planted his feet wide while wind gusted at him from behind. Sylvie’s green wool skirt billowed before her, and long strands of her hair whipped about her face. She reached for his hand, and he held it fast. He would hold it—hold her—every day, if she’d let him.
He was beginning to think she might.
But right now wasn’t the time to push for any sort of declaration, not with her mind so occupied with her dwindling time with Rose. During the past two weeks, between his own violin practicing and meetings with the maestro about the fast-approaching symphony season, Kristof had doubled his Polish lessons with Rose. In less than two weeks, she would very likely board a train for New York and join Jozefa of her own free will. The long good-bye between Sylvie and Rose had already begun.
Breakers from the lake splashed against the back of the Peristyle, tossing white spray toward circling grey gulls. Kristof and Sylvie faced the Court of Honor, watching for both Rose and Wiktor Janik among the ever-growing throng pouring in between the Grand Basin and the buildings surrounding it. A fifteen-foot-wide path had been cordoned off for the Night Pageant in honor of Chicago Day, and already the Columbian Guards needed to hold those lines.
When they passed through the gates at noon, the ticket taker told Sylvie that sales had already shattered the Paris World’s Fair record for attendance in a single day—and that had been nearly four hundred thousand. And the people kept on coming.
“I’m sure these crowds will slow Rose down.” Sylvie’s cheeks pinked in the crisp, sixty-degree weather. “As soon as we see Mr. Janik, let’s take him inside. Rose will know where to find us.”
He agreed. Rose had spent the afternoon with Hazel and Walter. Kristof hoped she would meet Janik as planned but suspected the urgency had dimmed. She wanted Jozefa, not more stories of Magdalena and Nikolai.
Kristof checked his timepiece. Quarter to six. The sky blushed at the coming night.
“There he is.” Kristof pointed out Mr. Janik to Sylvie, then muscled a path down the steps and through a sea of black derby hats to meet him.
“Good evening!” Kristof said in Polish, grasping the older man’s elbow as much to keep track of him as to hold him steady. Sylvie looped her hand through Janik’s other arm. “How about a quieter place to talk?”
Nodding, Janik apologized for his delay and allowed Kristof to lead him into Music Hall.
Shadows and bunting draped the dim, cavernous hall. What the gigantic venue lacked in coziness and charm, it made up for in the ability to be heard.
“Please.” Kristof gestured to the back row of seats in the auditorium.
Janik sat between him and Sylvie. After placing his derby on his knee, he brushed some kind of confetti from his lapels.
“Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with us again,” Sylvie began. Kristof translated her gratitude, followed by inquiries as to his health and recent travels.
“But I suspect you did not ask me here to find out about my relatives in St. Louis.” Janik winked.
Sylvie glanced at the door. Still no sign of Rose. “You’re right,” she said anyway. “We recently learned that Rozalia was adopted by Magdalena and Nikolai Dabrowski, most likely when she was an infant. You didn’t mention it last time we spoke. We wondered if you knew anything about it.”
As Kristof translated, grooves chiseled Janik’s brow.
“No,” he said. “This is not possible. Who told you such a lie?”
Prompted by Sylvie, Kristof explained everything he knew about Jozefa.
“Not possible,” Janik said again.
Sylvie’s lips pinched at one corner. “Kristof, I wonder just how close he was with the Dabrowskis,” she murmured. “If Magdalena and Nikolai wanted everyone to believe Rozalia was their biological child, they could have lied about it or just let neighbors assume incorrectly.”
He turned back to Janik. “Respectfully, sir, how can you be certain?”
The older man’s wiry eyebrows bounced, then drew together. “I was Magdalena’s doctor. I delivered the baby.”
Sure he’d heard incorrectly, Kristof asked him to repeat himself before interpreting.
She gasped. “Why didn’t he tell us this before?”
Janik spread his hands. “Why should I think it mattered? I was their friend and neighbor first. Their doctor second. Besides, I’ve been retired these many years.”
Kristof pondered this as he shared it with Sylvie. She looked as confused as he felt.
“Please,” she said. “Your story contradicts what Jozefa has told us. How do we know who to believe?”
Dr. Janik huffed. “I can’t account for this other story. But I can tell you that delivering Rozalia nearly took Magdalena’s life. Soon afterward, I performed a surgery to make sure she never conceived again.”
How Kristof wished Rose was here as he told Sylvie exactly what Dr. Janik had said.
Bewilderment flashed over Sylvie’s face. “There must be some misunderstanding.”
“I tell you God’s truth,” the doctor insisted. “After Rozalia was born, when I told my wife I’d have to perform the surgery, my wife crocheted a shawl and gave it to Magdalena for her recovery. I don’t know who this Jozefa woman is, but she most certainly is not Rozalia Dabrowski’s mother.” Concern carved deep seams in his face.
“Tell me.” Sylvie seemed to be winding tighter by the minute. “Don’t change anything or try to explain it, just tell me exactly what he said.”
Kristof obliged, implications and questions swirling in his mind like scattered notes unbound by a score.
“This can’t be true.” But the vibrato in Sylvie’s voice belied the words.
Janik pulled up one leg of his trousers and pointed below the cuff. “Look, my wife also made socks for me of the same blend of her favorite yarns. I would know it anywhere. We own many items made from this wool.” A peacock-blue, with soft dove-grey peeking between the rows. There was no mistaking the match with Rose’s shawl. “Is Rozalia in some kind of trouble?”
Sylvie leapt up, blanching.
The door burst open behind them, the shudder echoing throughout the enormous hall.
Ivan Mazurek surged toward them on a tide of noise from the clamoring mob outside, shirt rumpled behind his suspenders. “Rose,” he gasped, then rested his hands on his knees, panting.
A chill spidered over Kristof’s scalp as he went to Ivan. “What’s going on?”
“I was hoping she’d be here. Lottie overheard the plan for you all to meet with Mr. Janik.”
The boy still hadn’t given up following her. “So you came to talk,” Kristof guessed. Sylvie remained rooted where she stood.
“I came to stop her. She’s with Jozefa.”
“What?” Sylvie rushed toward them. “No. Jozefa is in New York.”
“You didn’t know?” Ivan straightened and returned her wide-eyed stare. “Lottie found a note while cleaning Rose’s room. Jozefa came back. She told Rose to meet her tonight on the roof of the Woman’s Building. She told her to come alone.”
Sylvie’s world collapsed into a single imperative. Get there.
Leaving Kristof to bid Dr
. Janik a hasty good-bye, she rushed with Ivan to the front of Music Hall. Sweat dripped from his temples as he leaned into the door, shouting to the masses on the other side to stand back so he could open it.
“It’s no use.” He wrung his hat. “Everyone is packed like sardines to see the parade. I had to beat my way into the building, and now it’s even worse.”
“Back door.” Kristof, who had caught up with them, took Sylvie’s hand, and the three of them ran through the lobby, down the corridor parallel to the auditorium, and into one of the stage wings, until Kristof slammed against the door that exited onto the Peristyle. Both he and Ivan wrestled it open for Sylvie to push through first.
Night was falling, and the temperature with it. Cool air splashed over her, along with the nearly deafening cacophony of tens of thousands of voices. Sylvie’s chest constricted as she took in the Court of Honor. It wasn’t just the ground level that was full. Rooftops and balconies on the surrounding buildings bristled with spectators. Others had wedged themselves between the columns of the Peristyle on which she stood. She could barely breathe in the crush of people.
Kristof reclaimed her hand, and she held fast. Ivan shouted to clear a path, but his voice was swallowed up. By the light of incandescent lights, men clambered up ropes and makeshift ladders for a better view of the parade from the top of Machinery Hall and the Agriculture Building. Some were even standing on the pedestal of the Statue of the Republic in the middle of the Grand Basin.
The Woman’s Building was at the opposite corner of the fairgrounds. They could barely move an inch.
Get there.
“It’s starting!” a man beside Sylvie cried out. “I see the Hussars leading the way!”
Another man called from the Peristyle’s roof that the crowd had broken the lines and was blocking the horses’ path.
The crowd jostled around Sylvie, becoming all elbows and feet. Somewhere a child cried and a woman screamed. Another fainted.
“Ivan,” Kristof called. “Can you plow a path to the water?”
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