State Street with bawdy houses and foul cribs... Oh, throughout his past, Bronx had come across places like these. Not one for either cheap bed-houses or finer bordellos, wild women or whiskey, but he had spent time with his gang in hardscrabble drinkeries.
Her hand gripped on his arm as she steered clear of piles of trash. Against his sleeve, her fingers tightened like she might be itching to sweep things up. He laid his other hand over hers, felt the sparks like always, and wished he could feel them every single day. Hard to imagine a furniture maker’s proper daughter leaving home for this. How she must have loved Emmett. For she had helped him build Gethsemane here on purpose, to reach the fallen.
He stopped his hand.
For a while, morning silence hid the daily shenanigans of life in the cribs and rumholes. A brief relief from the dance hall music and breaths of hell. A silence unbroken this early in the day by breaking bottles, cries of pleasure. Or help. His skin crawled.
But they turned up a street full of respectable houses and shops. Just her footsteps, and his, joined in matching sounds like they belonged together. Goodnight, they’d slept close by each other two nights running, and she didn’t seem discomposed at all. He wished they could have just one normal day.
But he was leaving. And that reality panged him. He had to go, and she had to know. Even still, he missed her smile about now. He cleared his throat, but her words came first.
“You see? Pine Street isn’t fearsome at all.”
He ignored the statement, misliking her afoot at night, no matter where. “You must be gratified with Miz Frieda’s change of heart about now,” he said, instead.
Lila’s eyes shone, although a cloud had spilled itself like old coffee over the sun. She wasn’t wearing her dreary black burnoose today; rather, something in a red plaid. He wondered if that meant she wasn’t missing Emmett as much today. Or...a foolish pride rustled. If it was a message to him.
“Oh, Bronx, her kindness is, in truth, a dream come true and a miracle come to life. The Lord works in mysterious ways, to be sure.”
“To be sure,” Bronx said, because he had to say something. Although he himself never liked sermonizing, and was growing weary of mystery and secrets.
A boy on a safety-bicycle pulled newspapers from a bag at his shoulder, slowed, and tossed them onto yards. For a flash, Bronx envied the kid such a normal pursuit. But being with Lila no matter where, well, maybe the morning would not end.
A bakery cart bore a sign reading Union, pulled by matching Warmbloods. Lila waved then, too.
“Mr. Rosse is kind to Gethsemane. He sends over goods that might go stale, otherwise.”
Bronx wanted to be grateful to Mr. Rosse, to all who helped Gethsemane prosper, but the better off Lila seemed, the more he reckoned she’d never leave. If his heart sank any lower, he’d trip over it.
But she smiled at him then a smile so bright it would light up his dreams until he died. “Miss Frieda’s got a room off the kitchen. For hired help, but her clean-up girl still lives with her parents. It’s close to the stove, so Malina will be plenty warm. Miss Frieda is quite certain it is a chest cold that she can cure with mustard-plaster. But she will tend Malina closely, and bring in the doctor soon, if needed.”
“That was quite the change of heart.”
“Sometimes, it happens. Sometimes, the truth comes in words. Sometimes, without words.”
“Yep.” What words would he need to say good-bye? Or would he need any at all? He...could just go.
“Considering a doctor reminds me.” He changed the subject fast. “Before work, I might find my way to St. Vincent’s and check on Clemmons.”
“I wonder if his sweetness for Malina is true.” Her smile died. Lila wore no gloves. She chewed on a fingernail.
He took her other hand and she let him. “I can’t consider why not.”
“One can hope for the impossible.”
Bronx’s spirits fell. No. No, one couldn’t. But then, she turned back and pointed with a flailing hand.
“Stillborn Alley.” Her voice choked.
He hadn’t been here long, but he had learned quick about the grim misery of the district where no decent eyes looked. Asa had explained everything. The vile cribs of an alley whose name Lila gagged over.
“Malina...” Lila’s tears broke into a choking sob. “Her baby. I was going to tell you later, I was. The morning with you is so perfect, but it’s not perfect for everyone. I can’t wait.”
“Lila, what are you saying?” Bronx asked into her hair because her hood had fallen down when he drew her into his arms.
“Stillborn Alley.” Her eyes, tragic with tears, gazed up at his.
“I heard about it.” He wiped a tear, wished he could kiss it away.
“Bronx, her baby. I didn’t know. Six months ago. Born to her at the Red Cliff. But it’s no club for gentlemen, but the worst of humanity. She heard him cry, but...they claimed he didn’t live and he was...tossed there.”