Her mother kept talking, but Corinne shared a look with her father and gleaned from his glazed expression that it was all right to tune her out. The rest of the afternoon passed in a dreary, familiar monotony. Corinne refused to let the maid help her unpack, because then her mother would find out that the entirety of her suitcase was a hairbrush and a brick wrapped in a blanket to add weight. She’d sold all her school possessions after moving to the Cast Iron. There were always a few dresses in her closet at her parents’ estate to tide her over.
She took a walk with her mother through the rose garden, but after half an hour the winter chill forced them inside. Fortunately her mother was too preoccupied with the wedding to insist on more quality time. Her father had already sequestered himself away in his office, so Corinne had free rein of the house. She headed straight for the study in the oldest part of the house, where most of the construction was wood and brick. It had been her grandfather’s when he was alive. He was her mother’s father and had come to live with them after his wife had died.
As a child, Corinne would sneak in while he worked and finger the knickknacks on the shelves. Sometimes, when he wasn’t busy, he would tell her where they came from. There were wine corks from France, a dagger from Spain, and a crimson quill from the village where Shakespeare was born. Then there was the brass pocket watch from nowhere special, with its simple engraving: Love, Alice. Corinne never knew why it captured her imagination as it did, but she would spend hours sitting at his desk, watching him clean it, learning how to wind it, trying to convince him to tell her who Alice was. Her grandmother’s name had been Dolores.
Her grandfather told her many times who Alice was, but every time she was someone different. Sometimes she was a lion tamer he’d met at a circus in Romania, or a fearsome pirate who had boarded his ship in the Adriatic Sea, or an opera singer in Venice who could shatter glass with only her voice. Corinne had never particularly cared to hear the truth. What she loved best were the stories.
All her grandfather’s possessions were gone now, packed away or given to relatives. The study was kept furnished but empty. After his funeral, Corinne’s visits to her parents’ home had dwindled to only holidays and very special occasions. She didn’t see the point in coming more often than that, not when he was gone.
Corinne sat in the chair behind the desk and took out the pocket watch. She wanted to clean it, but she didn’t have the right supplies. Instead she set it on the desk and traced the etched swirls on the back with her fingernail. She recited a poem by Christina Rossetti, even though there was no one around to see an illusion. She liked the way the words felt on her tongue without artifice. Beautiful and poignant and rhythmic, like the ticking of the watch beneath her fingertips.
Even though Ada knew that it was smarter to stick around the Cast Iron, she didn’t want to while away the day doing nothing. Besides, she wasn’t about to eat soggy leftovers for lunch when her mother lived only five blocks away.
She pulled on her coat, gloves, and a warm cloche hat. The common room was empty—she, Corinne, and Saint were the only ones living down here right now. Other members of Johnny’s trusted circle drifted in and out on the current of their erratic lives. There had been one memorable summer when every inch of floor space was filled with blankets, pillows, and dirty socks.
Today everything was peaceful. The seating area was cluttered as usual, with books and sheet music and half-cleaned instruments. As she walked past Saint’s open door, she caught a glimpse of his red hair, but she didn’t slow down. The sharp scent of paint and brush cleaner followed her all the way to the stairs.
She knew that someday, somehow, she would have to find a way to at least acknowledge his presence, but not yet. She was still having nightmares about Haversham.
At the top of the stairs, Gordon was in conversation with someone, which was strange enough by itself. What was stranger was that the visitor was Charlie.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him, leaning in for a peck on the lips. Charlie never showed up at the Cast Iron during the day. It wasn’t that he wasn’t welcome exactly, just that the rivalry between the Red Cat and the Cast Iron hovered between friendly competition and something much more caustic. Several years ago Luke Carson had tried unsuccessfully to edge Johnny out of business. It had escalated from mudslinging to violence in less than a month, ending only when Johnny had shown up at the Red Cat during a performance, sat down right at Carson’s table, and calmly promised to burn the club to the ground if Carson didn’t back off. That was how the story went, anyway. It was one of Corinne’s favorites. Supposedly the two club owners had buried the hatchet since then, but Ada was still careful not to spend a lot of time with Charlie when Johnny was around. Just in case.
“Good morning to you too,” he said, his mouth working into a smile. He looked dapper in a brown coat and slacks, holding his hat in his hands.
“Morning,” Ada said, heading for the back door. “Did we have plans?”
“Not as such.” He skipped ahead of her to open the door. “Hold on—you take care, Gordon, you hear?”
He waved farewell before shutting the door. Gordon returned the wave, which was another first.