Page 96 of If Looks Could Kill
He smiled. “Showing up with you,” he said, “will spare me the scolding of a lifetime.”
“What?”
“Hearts of gold, both of them. But Aunt Mag has probably been praying the Rosary all night, certain I’m dead.” He grinned. “You’ll boost my standing considerably.”
“So that’s why you’re inviting me.”
There was just something about that boy’s smile. “You’ve found me out, Miss Woodward,” he said. “That’s why I’m inviting you.”
Tabitha—Irish Breakfast(Monday, December 3, 1888)
I blinked in the morning light. I am waking up in Mike’s bedroom, my brain reminded me.
He’s not here, my Salvation Army brain reminded me. And Pearl is still gone.
A bedside table sat piled high with books and notebooks, and an armoire missing its door showed Mike’s stacked, folded sweaters and his shirts hanging on pegs. A toy train sat upon a shelf above the table, next to a windup clock. The room smelled of cloves. It smelled like Mike.
I’d slept in my clothes, which is never a comfortable feeling, but it had made me feel safer last night. More ready, I supposed, if somehow, improbably, word had reached me about Pearl.
No sooner had I sat up and rubbed the grit from my eyes than a knock sounded, and a rosy-cheeked woman bustled in with a tray the size of Ireland and enough breakfast for an army.
“Good morning, Miss Tabitha,” Mike’s aunt Mag practically sang in that glorious Celtic accent. “I hope you’ve had a good rest?”
Aunt Mag had curly brown hair pinned atop her head with tendrilsspiraling down. She wore a cream lace blouse, a collar kept in place by a cameo pin, and a long brown skirt.
“Good morning, Mrs. O’Keeffe,” I managed to say. “I slept well. Just how late is it?”
“After the night you had,” she said, “it’s no wonder you needed a good lie-in.”
The details of the night rolled over me like waves at the seashore. Pearl, a Medusa. Pearl, missing. Pearl,a Medusa, for the love of heaven. A Medusa. Here in New York, in 1888. Freyda, captured. Abused. Assaulted. Cora and Freyda, sprung out of a pimp’s crib. Mother Rosie, waving her gun. Fleeing there. Fleeing Miss Stella and her mausoleum of a home. Leaving the Salvation Army. Being held at knifepoint by Buster.
My night with Mike.
And once again: Pearl.
“Are you all right, dearie?”
I blinked and saw Mike’s aunt watching me with concern.
“I’m fine,” I told her. “Still waking up.”
She settled on the edge of the bed and watched me expectantly. Dimly, I remembered meeting Mike’s uncle and aunt last night, but we’d been dead on our feet. Mike did his explaining privately, where I couldn’t hear. I was relieved. But what did they think I was to him?
Sizzling aromas wafted from her tray. Eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, mushrooms, toast, fried potatoes, cheese, porridge, black pudding, and coffee. Pearl and I usually split a day-old bun from Reggie’s Bakery. Aunt Lorraine believed in starting the day with bran mash.
“Eat hearty,” Aunt Mag urged me, placing the tray on my lap. “Here’s your napkin and your silverware.”
She didn’t need to tell me twice. “Will you join me,” I asked her, “with all this breakfast?”
She beamed. “Bless you, child. Eat! I had my breakfast hours ago. Mikehad to get to class early, and I knew he had a test to take, so I thought a proper breakfast would do him good.”
I stopped with my mouth full of mushrooms. “Class?” I asked. “A test?”
Aunt Mag’s eyes grew wide. My ignorance was not a mark in my favor, but she was too kind to dwell on it. She helped herself to a convivial wedge of toast.
“Sure, that’s right,” she said lightly. “His mathematics course he’s taking at the draftsman’s college. Algebra.” She beamed with ready pride. “Our Mike’s a bright one, he is. Not like the loafers you see these days. He’s got ambition to make something of himself.”
I took another bite of mushroom. “What a night to be out so late, when he had a test to take.”
