It had been gnawing at her since the night they had found out about Johnny, when everyone else had left. Corinne took it for granted that Gabriel had remained, because the Cast Iron was everything to her and she couldn’t imagine that the same wouldn’t be true for everyone who passed under its roof. But Ada knew that few people loved this place like Corinne did, with her impossible, unquestioning tenacity. Sometimes Ada thought that even Johnny couldn’t be as devoted. For Corinne, it was something deep-rooted, stretching far beyond the Cast Iron’s role as safe haven, farther than its history in Boston, when the city’s artists—hemopath and reg alike—would gather around crackling fires upstairs and speak of Titian and Mozart and Kant, spinning ideas like golden thread, tearing down kings and sparking revolutions. For Corinne the Cast Iron was an unbreakable fact. Something that had always existed and always would.
Sometimes Ada felt the same way. And sometimes she felt like the Cast Iron was her second choice, except she had never really been given a chance at her first.
Gabriel didn’t seem caught off guard by her question, though he took a long time answering it. For a few moments he considered the couch, but maybe the impeccable press of his suit dissuaded him, because he didn’t sit down.
“I didn’t know him for very long, but Johnny didn’t deserve to die. Especially not like that.”
“Justice, then? That’s why you’re staying?”
He did look caught off guard by that. Perhaps he’d thought that she would be satisfied with his initial answer. Ada wasn’t, though. It wasn’t a reason, just a statement of fact.
Gabriel crossed his arms and uncrossed them. He was so uncomfortable in the tuxedo that Ada almost felt bad for hounding him. He ran his hands through his dark hair, leaving it disheveled and in stark contrast to the rest of his person.
“My father died when I was seven,” he said at last. “He was killed right in the middle of the day, and my mother found out from our busybody neighbor, who she hated. I don’t think she ever forgave him for that.”
His musing tone belied the weight of his words. He finally dropped onto the couch, heedless of his attire for the first time since putting it on.
“I don’t even remember how I found out—whether I overheard the conversation or my mother told me herself. I just remember her kissing my forehead and telling me that I was safe, because she loved me, and we must always protect what we love.”
Ada was so still that she could hear the sizzling of the furnace, the thrumming of her own pulse. Gabriel’s brow was furrowed and his lips were slightly apart. His eyes focused by slow degrees as his mind skipped forward across the years, until he blinked and was present again. He looked at Ada.
“Johnny never did anything but try to protect what he loved,” he said. “I don’t think I can just leave, not when you’re all still here, not when I can help.”
His hands squeezed into fists, only briefly, and Ada got the feeling that only moments earlier they had been trembling. He jumped to his feet without warning.
Ada followed his gaze to where Corinne stood, leaning in the doorway of the bedroom. In her gauzy evening gown, with her hair curled and her lips yet undone, she looked just like her mother. Not that Ada would dare tell her that.
From Corinne’s expression, Ada could tell exactly how long she had been standing there. Corinne didn’t say anything, though. She just straightened and touched her gloved hand to the back of her head, as if she were afraid her curls had escaped.
Gabriel coughed. “You look—” But he seemed to have lost whatever words he had in mind. “Are you ready to go?”
“Almost.” Corinne must have been having trouble with words too, because her mouth wavered for several seconds, her eyes still on Gabriel. “Ada, can you help me with my necklace? It took me forever to get these gloves on, and I’m not about to take them off.”
Ada, whose amusement had her in sudden good humor, slid off the chair and followed Corinne into their room. Corinne dug around on the vanity until she found a string of pearls. She handed it to Ada and turned around. Ada fiddled with the clasp, waiting to hear what Corinne had to say, but apparently Corinne had decided against it. For once she was silent.
“You should kiss him tonight,” Ada told her.
Corinne jerked, and Ada almost dropped the necklace.
“Very funny,” Corinne said, but her voice was breathy and a higher pitch than normal.
Ada smiled and adjusted the necklace. The pearls were milky against the flushed pink of Corinne’s neck. Ada patted her on the back, a conciliatory gesture. “Just a suggestion,” she said.
The Lenox Hotel was a fortress of red and white brick. Its hundreds of windows glistened so perfectly with frost that Corinne’s first absurd thought was that someone must have hand-painted each of them. She craned her neck to see the roof, but it disappeared into the darkness. She had stayed here once with her mother, the night before she took the train to Billings Academy. Corinne was five years older now, but the hotel might as well have grown with her. She had never seen anything so vast.
Gabriel handed the Ford off to the waiting valet and took the ticket. Although she was dreading the dinner, Corinne was grateful to go inside. Her head already ached from the ride in the car, and the Lenox’s sheer height was starting to give her vertigo.
They entered the grand foyer and were instantly assaulted by warmth and light and clouds of ladies’ perfume. The marble floor glared with reflections, and overhead crystal chandeliers tinkled delicately as gusts of outside air blew in. There was a sign to the left pointing them toward the Wells-Haversham Party in the Washington Ballroom.
“Haversham?” Gabriel asked. “Like the hemopath asylum?”