On the corner of Ninth and Walnut Street, a curious orchestra performed discordant tunes outside the towering edifice of the American Theatre.

Horse-drawn hackney coaches and cabs rambled down the street. Vendors hawked their wares to passersby. Boys shouted about the latest edition of their respective newspapers. Indigents begged alms upon the moving mass of citizenry as it went about its daily business.

The cacophony boomed everywhere, perceptible to every human ear but Elsia Letchmore’s. Blood pounded between her temples, muting the sound of the world behind her.

Elsia’s gullet constricted. She swallowed to ease the restriction of air, but she feared nothing but completing her task would accomplish that goal.

When she arrived in Philadelphia, she’d hired a cab by the hour to take her within the city limits. The cabman, a colored gentleman of pleasant disposition, decided her fifty cents an hour payment was worth the unusual request of escorting a colored woman on her own. Assured of more money, the man waited for her return on the next street over.

Elsia glanced at the gold timekeeping bracelet clasped tight to her narrow wrist. There wasn’t any more time to stall. She’d allotted only a certain amount of time to bring about the desired effect. If she wasted any more of the day rooted in trepidation, then her flagrant disobedience of her father would be for nothing.

Despite this self-castigation, her feet remained fastened to the sidewalk.

Her wildly beating heart threatened to escape the confines of her breast. She’d rehearsed this moment, certain of her words. Reassured of their brevity and lack of emotionalism.

Now it was upon her. All her preparations dissipated like dew under a harsh dawn sun.

How would Zelpher Knight react to the news she’d taken upon herself to deliver?

She added her voice to the surrounding discord. “You’ll never discover the answer if you stay here.”

Gray clouds billowed above like a harbinger of some dark fate. Despite her sensibilities, her scalp tingled. How could she enter the den of wickedness that was the American Theatre?

Once a circus and equestrian theater, the blue-marbled building now hosted dramatic presentations for the masses. Shakespearean plays, musicals, minstrel shows, and the newer burlesque shows. She peered up at three darkened doorways separated by eight columns made of the same marble material.

Apollo, her father, believed Zelpher to be beyond God’s repentance, having sacrificed respectability for indecency as he embraced the debauched lifestyle of a “play actor.”

Elsia had forgone the opportunity to remind her sire of his past enjoyment of the entertainment provided by “play actors.”

She remembered his words from two days ago, and the fierce scowl that marred his dark, beloved face.

“If the Lord wanted Zelpher to know, Elsia, he would have commanded the angel Gabriel to relate the message. We have nothing to do with it.”

She’d tried reasoning with him. “Wouldn’t you want to know if your positions in life were reversed, Father?”

Apollo snorted. “I’d never put myself in such a predicament to warrant your question.”

Her conscience demanded she act. She could not forgo her Christian duty.

She started up the steps. Once at the top, she paused and took in another deep breath. Her hand trembled as she reached out, but the door swung outward. She came face to face with Zelpher Knight himself.

The world halted as their eyes met for the first time in three years. Her heart catapulted into her throat as her hungry gaze feasted on him.

A tall, pale-skinned man with a height of over six feet. Zelpher’s broad physique possessed wide shoulders, supporting a well-shaped head. Square-jawed with a prominent chin thrusting out with arrogant aplomb. His crooked nose rested above a masculine mouth, full and firm with resolve.

Dressed in a sober black frock coat fitted to his trim waist, along with a plain white vest over a white linen shirt, he looked like a proper gentleman. The brim of his hat cast a shadow along the misaligned bridge of his nose, but his hazel-green eyes gleamed from the darkness like a cat’s.

“I beg your pardon, miss.” Zelpher lifted his top hat in apology, revealing a crown of black, curly hair. “I hope the door didn’t strike you?”

Elsia had envisioned the moment she’d see Zelpher again. Assorted scenarios in which this meeting would happen played in her mind. In all of them, Zelpher acknowledged her. Perhaps with surprise, maybe with inward knowing, or in desperate longing.

Never while he was pretending.

Her shoulders slumped and the thickness in her throat swelled. There he stood in perfect form, his acting skills on full display for any passersby. A casual observer could be forgiven for believing this was their first meeting.

Elsia’s eyes drifted shut, and she sent a silent prayer for patience. Would he ever end this perpetual need to conceal his real self from others?

When her eyes opened, he’d come a step down, closer than before. He towered over her, his hazel-green eyes intent upon her face. Drifts of sandalwood from his person wafted to her nostrils.

“Miss?”

It was a single word, but Elsia knew what was behind it. What she didn’t know about Zelpher Knight fit inside a thimble. He wanted her to play along.

Despite everything inside of her that recoiled against such subterfuge, she’d never been able to deny him. The bulge centered in her neck eased.

“No, Mister—” She let the word draw out, waiting for him to supply his current alias.

“Theodore Stanway.”

Her head jerked back, eyes widening before she composed herself. Sarcasm dripped from her voice. “Mr. Stanway, is it? Thank you for your concern.”

Zelpher’s mouth twisted before he spoke again. “I see you were going to visit the theater, Miss—?”

An imp of mischief tapped her shoulder. He wanted to pretend he did not know her, did he? Well, she could do the same, but in the opposite manner. “Mrs. Knight,” she said.

A flush spread over his face. “Mrs. Knight,” he repeated, albeit in a choked way. His hand jerked as he reached up and adjusted the black necktie secured around his throat. “Were you coming to visit someone?”

“I have a message for an acquaintance of mine.”

His brows drew inward. “What sort of message?”

Her mischievous imp ran away, replaced by the more sober reason for her arrival. This wasn’t what she’d planned, but he’d given her little choice.

She opened her reticule and retrieved a snowy white paper, letter-locked with intricate folding and sealed with wax.

Elsia held it in her hand for a moment, staring at his name written in her neat penmanship. Should she cease this ridiculous game? Do away with the pretense that was a part of Zelpher as much as his masculinity?

With a resigned shake of her head, she held out the letter to him. What it contained would end any sense of attitudinizing, perceived or not.

“The information for my acquaintance. It’s important he receives it.”

Zelpher’s face blanched as he took the letter from her. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Zelpher’s eyes darted away. He wanted her gone. A sigh escaped her lips as she walked back down the steps. When she reached the bottom, she heard Zelpher call out. “Mrs. Knight?”

She paused, battling between going on her way or stopping to heed his call. Finally, she turned around.

“Yes, Mr. Stanway?”

“You appear to be a woman who enjoys the theater.”

Elsia felt an unnatural stillness come over her. Zelpher came down the steps until he stood next to her. His eyes bore into her face as if he wielded the power to control her will.

“I do?” Her brows lifted into her forehead. “I’d no idea you knew me so well, Mr. Stanway.”

Twin streaks of red shaded his high cheekbones.

Her gaze skimmed the building again. Her father would have discovered her absence by now. It would be foolish to add insult to injury if she weren’t to make it back tonight on the next available train to New York.

Please, Zelpher, don’t ask me.

“Perhaps you can come back later this evening for the performance?”

His gaze held her captive, despite her every wish to tear herself free. With a small, barely audible cry, she turned away.

Say no, Elsia. Don’t make a terrible decision worse.

She glanced again at the timekeeping bracelet. If she left now, she’d still make it home.

How could she stay when her father would be beside himself with concern? Apollo’s face floated in her mind, thunderous and wrathful. Fraught with worry.

She turned back to Zelpher once again. He stood there, waiting for her answer.

How could she leave?

Elsia pursed her lips as she lifted her shoulders. “I shan’t miss it, Mr. Stanway.”

Zelpher felt like a man being released from a dark prison. Upon seeing the faint glow of sunshine, the man staggered towards its warmth. Wouldn’t the prisoner fall to his knees before that great orb? He’d lift his haggard, drawn face and bask in its life-giving beams.

In the whirlwind of his mind, the quote resounded like a gong.

But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

Just like Juliet, Elsia Letchmore was more than sunshine. She was the Sun.

And he? Zelpher Knight? He was a desperate, withering plant eager for her nourishment.

But Elsia could never know how much he needed her.

Yet, his bated breath eased soundlessly from between his lips. The coiled springs that were the muscles on his back relaxed.

“I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Knight.”

Elsia’s lovely dark brown eyes narrowed. “You knew I would hardly say anything different, didn’t you?”

Warmth crept up the back of his neck. Elsia rarely denied him any request he made. They both knew why, but he didn’t want to bring that up at this moment.

Instead of directly answering her question, if indeed it was a question, he said, “I am invigorated by the thought of your presence in the audience tonight, Mrs. Knight.”

It had taken all his control and will to lock his knees in place and keep himself upright. Had the circumstances been different, he would have fallen before her, prostrate like a worshipper before a deity.

Elsia held his gaze for a moment longer before she gave a curt nod and walked away. His eyes followed her emerald bonnet-clad head, seeing the graceful gait that drew the eye.

She had been in his thoughts more often of late, her elusive presence cavorting around his mind. Bygone images of their younger years had soothed a troubled sleep while whispering bits and pieces of their past conversations teased his ears.

Was it fate that led him to exit the building — or a more divine power? Whatever it was, when he opened the door, Elsia had stood before him like he’d longed for all this time.

How different she looked from the last time he saw her. Back then, she’d worn a threadbare blue gown, frayed and old. An apron stained with blood and bits of animal gore tied around her middle while her hair, drawn back into a bun, had wispy tendrils flying about her face.

Now, she presented an altogether new picture. A woman of class.

His lips twisted in an unpleasant way. Not even his parents could fault how demure and well-heeled Elsia appeared.

The high-necked gown conformed to her slender body. Brown silk material, interspersed with shots of a lighter gold, shimmered as the sunlight bathed its glory upon it. The ruffled edges of a Jenny Lind collar framed her throat. It lay over the neckline of the matching pelerine, an outer cape no decent woman went without. Graceful folds of the domed skirt emphasized her narrow waist and flowed to the ground. The hem rustled above her side-laced tan Adelaides.

As Elsia disappeared around a corner, the rhythm of his thudding heart increased. A lack of judgment risked his anonymity. He shouldn’t have invited her to the performance, but he needed her presence like he needed air. With a minute shake of his head at his own cursed foolishness, he turned his attention to the letter she’d given him.

With Elsia, it would be terrible news.

He inserted the letter into his inner pocket. Where was she staying? Few establishments catered to colored people. Some would for the right price.

Money had never been in short supply for Elsia or her family. His parents resented that for many years.

Zelpher hailed a hackney. As it pulled up to the curb, his gaze happened upon a figure standing across the street. He squinted, seeing a white man of medium height dressed in a dark brown, rumpled sack coat, a plain brown waistcoat, and black trousers. Highly unfashionable, and barely a gentleman.

But why was the man staring so intently at him?

As the hackney drew up to the curb, he dismissed the man from his mind and climbed inside. On the empty seat next to him, he set his hat down. His shoulders slumped against the cushions.

Had he known he’d see Elsia again, he would have prepared for the encounter. How did one prepare to meet a nymph in the forest? You couldn’t prepare for the happenstance. You simply had to survive it.

He peered out the small windows. Traffic drove by the odoriferous refuse piles lining the streets. A woman stood near one such heap and upended a bucket. Banana peels, apple cores, and orange peels rolled down the mound. The remnants added bright color, but within a day, they’d darken and rot.

Like him.

The hackney stopped to let another vehicle pass. A sidewalk sign displaying an upcoming ballet performance at Chestnut Street Theatre caught his eye.

An involuntary shudder quaked his body and he looked away.

Hours later, Zelpher sat by himself in front of the mirror in the dressing room he shared with four other actors, resting before his performance. Behind him in the reflection hung his coat. In the inner pocket, the unopened letter flamed like a tongue of holy fire.

What dire contents did it hold?

In an hour, he’d see Elsia again. He almost wished he hadn’t invited her to the performance. The days when he had top billing had vanished.

He still could act, even if for a nominal speaking role.

A knock at the door jolted him out of his stupor. Zelpher reached for a tin and made up his face. “Come in.”

A thin man sauntered in. Zelpher’s stomach hardened, but he pretended to be fully engaged in his pre-performance ministrations.

“Theodore,” David Needle said, “get your medicine bag.”

Zelpher’s hand paused midair. “Why?”

“Paul’s complaining about his stomach.”

“David, I’m uncertain what you think I can do.” His hand moved again, smearing on a thin coat of greasepaint under his eyes.

“Don’t try that with me,” the acting manager said with the narrowing of one eye. “You got medical learning and I need you to look.”

“I’m not a doctor, David,” he gritted out between his teeth.

“Whatever you are, you’re close enough. Go on now.”

David stood by the door. Zelpher bit back a growl. He was supposed to be acting, not healing the sick! Going over to the narrow closet, he retrieved his black leather medicine bag.

Following David, he came to a dressing room larger than his own to see Paul moaning and groaning on the rose-pink settee.

“Oh, I’m glad to see you.” The man’s brow furrowed into deep lines, the corners of his mouth turned down.

Despite himself, he ran an eye over the man. “Where are you hurting?”

Paul clutched his stomach, his long blond hair falling forward. “My insides are twisting about and there’s a burning sensation along at the back of my throat.” The man belched. “My tongue tastes bad.”

Pushing aside some bottles and tins on the vanity, Zelpher set the medicine bag down and opened it. “What did you eat today?”

As Paul listed what seemed to be two courses of everything, Zelpher clucked his tongue. “You are suffering from dyspepsia.” He moved the small vials, each corked or bearing an aluminum lid with the name of the medicine, herb, tablet, or powder within it. “It can be a painful condition, but not a harmful one.”

He went through his vials until he found the one he wanted. After asking some more pertinent questions, he gave Paul two tablets with instructions on the usage and left.

When David came back with him to the dressing room, Zelpher said, “Is there something more, David?”

“Theodore, who was that colored girl you were talking to?”

Zelpher’s fingers tensed on the handles of the medicine bag, but nothing of his expression gave away his surprise.

“What are you talking about, David?” he asked in a bored tone.

“That colored girl on the steps this afternoon. You were talking to her.”

He scrunched his face as if in trying to remember. “A colored girl? I don’t recall — oh! The young woman who needed directions. She wasn’t anyone important.”

“Your conversation lasted a while.”

Zelpher turned away, his heart thrashing against his ribcage. “Is there some purpose for this interrogation?”

David sniffed. “Not at all. She was right pretty for a colored woman.”

His spine straightened and a muscle pulled at the corner of his mouth. What man could be faulted for being captivated by Elsia’s fetching appearance? Glowing amber-hued skin, impish dark brown eyes, and delicate feminine features worked a powerful sorcery over the masculine mind.

He just didn’t want to listen to David admire her.

David rubbed his hands together in a brisk fashion. “Well, you go ahead and get ready.”

Zelpher froze. Slowly, he turned back around. “What did you say?” he asked hoarsely.

“You heard me.” David started for the door. “Paul can’t do it, so you’ll have to.”

“Do what?” Why did he have the feeling he already knew?

Please don’t let it be true! Not with Elsia out there!

David called out behind him. “I know it’s last minute, but you’ll do fine. Black up, Tambo!”

The effulgent glare of the moon beamed down like the eye of God. It illuminated her path more than the evenly placed gas street lamplights girdling the sidewalks.

Elsia tugged the ends of her gloves and attempted to divest herself of the fanciful thought. Her immortal soul wasn’t in danger, was it?

Her father’s claims to the contrary echoed in her mind.

In the theater, faithless sinners with tawdry, made-up faces ran amok with coarse language and unbridled behavior. In hushed circles, whispers abound. Actors and actresses proffered their favors without prejudice to whoever desired them.

How she wished her dear friend, Sebro, had taken the journey with her. In her friend’s care, anxiety would lose its foothold on her bravery, conquered by Sebro’s blatant disregard for propriety.

“If you’re so frightened for your soul, Elsia, why are you pursuing Zelpher into the pits of hell?” Sebro’s velvety voice from three days ago sounded in her head.

“You and everyone else in Five Points knows why.”

Sebro’s cold, dark eyes had narrowed. “You’ll become as evil as I am if you’re not careful, my sweet Elsia. And I would so enjoy the company.”

A light laugh escaped her lips as she came to the corner. Leave it to Sebro, even in her absence, to calm her nerves. If her friend were here, she’d have made the journey more pleasant.

Her mirth subsided some. Had Sebro come with her, the meeting would have ended in calamity. In each other’s presence, Sebro and Zelpher squared off like soldiers in battle.

Elsia stopped in her tracks as a sudden thought entered her brain.

Had Zelpher partaken of those favors?

Her fingers curled into fists, and she hissed through her teeth. For long moments, her mind filled with half-formed images of Zelpher consuming the advances of beautiful, faceless women.

Taking in a breath, she stilled her racing heart. Zelpher would never betray her, so why allow her mind to dwell on distasteful things?

She eased the breath out of her tight chest and continued her walk.

After she left Zelpher, she had the cabman take her to the Magnetic Telegraph Company. After paying the exorbitant fee to send a telegram to her father, she secured lodgings for the night at Mrs. Carraway’s Boardinghouse for Colored Occupants on Lombard Street.

Elsia haggled vigorously with the woman before she paid another excessive charge for one night’s stay.

Sebro’s imagined voice spoke in her mind. “Is Zelpher Knight worth five dollars of your father’s hard-earned money?”

What could she say? No one in Five Points comprehended her love for Zelpher.

When she came to the corner, she paused. Mrs. Carraway had been right. The American Theatre, unlike its fashionable counterpart, The Chestnut Street Theatre above Sixth Street, catered to a different class of society.

A mass of people congregated outside the building. Dispersed amongst the throng waiting for entry were members of the various social strata of the working class — house servants, factory workers, shopkeepers, and laborers.

Many people willingly entered the depths of hell.

With a steadying huff of air, Elsia adjoined herself to the crowd. Cloying perfume competed with the aroma of unwashed bodies and garbage.

Not so different from home.

When the doors opened, a peculiar itch rippled down her back. Moisture evaded her mouth, and she swallowed to regain it.

Apollo’s warnings about respectable behavior blared in her mind. Women like her avoided these sorts of establishments. Who knew what could happen once she entered those doorways?

Apollo must be ill with worry, though the telegram would ease his fears. His dislike for Zelpher wasn’t helped by her rebellion, but he knew nothing would prevent her from seeing Zelpher again.

Elsia groaned as she paid for her ticket and entered the building.

If the American Theatre resembled hell, it was an elegant place for one’s doomed soul.

A coffeehouse at the front of the building provided the nutty aroma wafting to her nose. Some attendants broke away and headed to a cellar restaurant. She, along with others, passed through the doors.

The balconies formed a horseshoe shape supported by cast-iron columns. They overlooked the main floor seating. Gilded wooden ornaments decorated the front of the boxes, the columns, and the proscenium.

Elsia followed other colored theatergoers until she arrived at the section reserved for them. Checking the playbill, she saw there would be a Philadelphian local musical, a minstrel show, and a Shakespearean play.

Undoubtedly, Zelpher would be in the Shakespearean play.

A sense of doom crept over her. What was she doing here? She was to deliver a message and return home. Instead, she sat here in this theater, eagerness and fear warring inside her, waiting for a chance to see Zelpher performing a role of magnitude.

A male voice startled her. “Pardon me, miss. Is it your first time here?”

Elsia lifted her eyes from the playbill. A colored gentleman stood above her. She had an overall impression of thinness. Tall and lean-framed with compact shoulders. A cotton and linen suit of a gray-checked design hung loosely with a burgundy necktie stark against the white shirt.

“Yes, it is. How did you guess?”

“I told you, didn’t I?”

A rotund colored woman stepped from behind the man. Her gray cotton gown with its tight, long sleeves fit snug on her robust form. An expansive white shawl embroidered with flowers saved the garment from plainness. Her brown eyes and welcoming smile added a natural sparkle.

They exchanged introductions and as they settled into their seats, Mr. Langford asked his wife, “Why do you suppose this always happens, dear?”

“We’re the most knowledgeable about the theater. Providence demands we share that knowledge.”

“I learned some things about the theater when I arrived today,” she said with haste, lest one of them seek to educate her.

“Did you know Edwin Forrest performed here?”

Elsia’s mouth fell open. “The Edwin Forrest?”

Their heads nodded as one. “He first performed here as a lad of fourteen years.”

“Did he?” She leaned forward.

Mrs. Langford gave a pleased smirk. “Indeed. I have it on good authority—”

“Gossip,” Mr. Langford interjected.

“Authority,” the woman repeated, cutting her eyes at her husband, “that while inhaling the fumes of a rather strange gaseous material, he did a soliloquy of one of Shakespeare’s plays.”

Mr. Langford added, “That was nearly thirty years ago, long before our time.”

“Have you ever met him?”

Mrs. Langford’s smile wavered, and her gaze darted away. “Indirectly.”

Elsia gave a slight shake of her head. “What do you mean?”

“My grandmother did. She mistook him for a friend of hers.”

“How can that be when—”

The words ended as if sliced away by a knife. Her mouth formed an ‘O’ while a sinking sensation dropped in her stomach. “I believe I understand you.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to explain the circumstances to you.” Mrs. Langford patted Elsia’s hand in a friendly way. “One swallow doesn’t make summer, as they say. We can’t judge the man for something he did nearly thirty years ago.”

Perhaps, but her admiration for the great Edwin Forrest suffered a blow.

Elsia sighed. What could anyone say against it? Performing ‘blackface’ was a part of American society as much as slavery.

Commotion from the stage drew their attention and Elsia tried to dispel her distasteful thoughts. She found she couldn’t focus. Throughout the play, tension steadily tightened the skin between her shoulder blades.

How long before Zelpher came out? She wanted to see him perform.

Until then…

Her lips pressed tight into a grimace. What a mean trick to play, pretending to be colored.

Was it worse he’d fooled the old woman?

Elsia sighed. What could anyone do about it? Thomas Dartmouth Rice, known as “Daddy” Rice, blazed the trail of blackface with his portrayal of ‘Jim Crow’ as well as the song “Jump Jim Crow.” Since then, white performers had ‘blacked up’ to portray ‘the darky in his natural form’.

Her eyes drifted down to the words ‘minstrel show’. Mr. Frederick Douglass, the former slave turned abolitionist, who set white and colored ears aflame with his oratory, had scorned it. His words reverberated in her mind.

“… the filthy scum of white society, who have stolen from us a complexion denied to them by nature, in which to make money, and pander to the corrupt taste of their white fellow citizens.”

She gave a start as the play ended with a thunderous round of applause, grimacing when she heard the announcement for the next act.

Straightening her spine, she swallowed the bitter taste at the back of her mouth. She had never seen a minstrel show. Though she abhorred the idea on a matter of principle, she nonetheless was curious about it.

It started with the troupe of minstrels arriving onto the stage, all smothered in blackface with buffoonish expressions. Dressed in ill-fitting clothes, they danced with sinuous, limber moves in a circle, making her eyebrow arch into her forehead. Once the dance was finished, members of the troupe exchanged wisecracks and sang songs.

When they moved to the second act, one of the endmen came forward, the one known as Tambo and sat on a platform.

Elsia’s heart stopped.

She knew that face, despite the fact it was slathered in black greasepaint or burnt cork. She knew those lips, outlined to exaggerate their wonderful fullness. She knew that voice, disguised as it was.

Zelpher!

The sinking sensation turned into a hole, sucking in every other emotion except pain. As he bandied back and forth with Zip Coon, a caricature of the dandified colored man, her hands curled into fists.

What made the entire spectacle worse was the sound of the audience’s laughter as the two men verbally sparred with puns and parodied English.

How could Zelpher do this? How could he allow himself to accept a role like this? Why would he do this? When he left Five Points, he’d told her he’d become as famous as Edwin Forrest himself.

She glanced over at the Langfords and a few others in the section reserved for colored people.

None of them were laughing.

Somewhat mollified by this show of quiet protest, she forced herself to watch the remainder of the show. It ended with a slapstick musical, depicting a good-hearted view of plantation life.

Amidst the roars of laughter and handclapping, Elsia promised herself that she would get the bottom of Zelpher’s audacity before she left the American Theatre.

Zelpher’s cheeks flamed underneath the black greasepaint slathered on his face as he, along with the rest of the minstrel troupe, bowed.

Beyond the incandescent glow of the gas footlights, the theater goers jumped up and applauded. “Bravo! Bravo!”

The sound of the audience’s pleasure hardened the lump forming in his throat. He’d wager with the last of his meager savings that at least one person in the theater wasn’t clapping.

Elsia’s fury would burn hotter than the Sun.

He should have listened to his first instinct. To let her go on her way without succumbing to the need of having her presence in the same vicinity again. But he’d allowed his weakness for Elsia to dictate after so long an absence.

This was the result of that foolishness. She had seen him at his lowest.

How had he come to this?

The upbeat music started, and he moved, ready for the walkaround. Each member took a turn dancing. The others stood around in a circle, “pattin’ Juba’.” They slapped and clapped their hands in time with the music. When his turn came, he jumped and clicked his heels, rolling his eyes and bulging them out. The members of the audience roared with laughter.

Could the band play faster? He had to escape!

The rest of the group performed their own dances, and soon, the curtain closed, signaling intermission for the next act. Zelpher’s smile melted away, and he stomped down the narrow passageway leading backstage. He yanked the black woolly wig off his head and pulled out the buck teeth.

He passed open doors, barely cognizant of the other actors who were getting ready to perform. His fingers unbuttoned his tattered costume with angry jerks. When he neared his dressing room, he found the door ajar.

A not-so-distant memory rushed to the forefront of his mind, another door ajar, a frightened pale face crying out in anguish.

Zelpher shook his head, sending the image way.

Fingers clutching the woolly wig, he took in a deep breath and let it out through his nostrils.

Entering the room, he saw David Needle’s wiry figure sitting in front of the vanity, his thinning, blond head bent over a small tin of black make-up.

Snorting, Zelpher asked, “What are you doing in here?”

“Waiting for you.” David lifted the small tin and shifted it back and forth in his hands.

Zelpher finished unbuttoning the tight frock coat with its ragged edges and scuffed appearance and fought the urge to throw it onto the floor.

“Why?”

“You did good out there, Theodore, although you didn’t have much time to prepare. You always please the crowd.”

A sour taste filled the back of his mouth. “Thank you.”

“It’s really something how well you fall into character.” David’s dark green eyes glittered in the low light. “I’d say you’re the most authentic darky we have out there.”

He turned away from the man, going over to the closet and opening the door. Pulling off the frock coat and hanging it up on a hook on the inside, he took in a silent breath.

You’re Theodore Stanway. It’s all part of the act. The show must go on. The show must always go on.

Must the show go on for the rest of his life? Was he always meant to live behind some sort of façade?

Why bother with such things now? Just get through the next few moments.

Closing his eyes and breathing through his nostrils, he thought about the best reply to that statement. But he could not bring himself to say it. After all, an actor had to learn the art of improvisation. Instead, he decided to play with ignorance.

“What makes you think that?”

“That’s how they all act, don’t they? Daddy Rice was the one who saw that old darky fella doing the song and the dance like he said. Must be right.”

Zelpher’s nostrils flared. Declining to answer that direct question he said instead, “Is there something you want?”

If the manager noticed the tight-lipped response, he gave no indication of it. “That colored girl I saw you talking to today. She wanted to speak with you.”

A blast of ice and heat washed through him. How like Elsia to not wait until there was a convenient time to see her.

“Oh?” He feigned polite, pleasant surprise as he faced David again. “I did invite her to the theater tonight. I’m glad to see she’s here.”

“That so? Well, normally, I wouldn’t allow anyone back here during an act, but that colored girl seemed a bit determined to see you.”

Zelpher could only imagine.

“Since you’re not doing anything else tonight, Theodore, I’ll allow it. ‘Sides. I don’t mind a man having a little bit of fun. Colored girl like that, why wouldn’t you?”

David rose from his perch in front of the vanity. He walked over to where Zelpher stood by the closet and leaned over with a leer in his eyes. “When you're done and if you don't mind sharing…”

The acting manager give a coarse laugh and shrugged, walking out the door.

Zelpher let out a slow breath between his lips. “‘Hell is empty’,” he couldn’t help but recite. “‘And all the devils are here’.”

David had no idea how close he came to being pulverized by his fists.

Although three years passed since last he’d seen her, Zelpher felt Elsia’s presence long before she came to the door. What was he going to say to her?

Elsia glided in, her gown flowing about her with a graceful sway. Her face bore a carefully erected semblance of blandness, but her dark brown eyes glowered from under the brim of her fetching bonnet.

David stood outlined in the center of the doorway, a knowing, salacious expression on his features.

Zelpher bit the inside of his mouth. What did the man think was going to happen? With a tight smile, he said, “Thank you, David. That will be all.”

His acting manager looked startled at the blatant dismissal. Then he shook his head and left, shutting the door behind him.

“Hello, Mrs. Knight,” he started, hoping she would let sleeping dogs lie. “How did you like the performance tonight?”

“There is no one here to benefit from your acting skills, Zelpher.” She took another step forward. “I allowed it this afternoon. Please give me the honor of speaking to the real you.”

His shoulders slumped. “Very well, Elsia.” She was right. She was one of the few women able to see past the great many masks he wore.

“Before I say anything more, please get rid of that.” She gestured wildly with her gloved hand. “I refuse to speak anymore to you until that… atrocity on your face is gone.”

“Of course,” he muttered. “I would have done it as soon as I—”

“I really don’t wish to know, Zelpher. Please, just do it.”

She turned away from him.

The tense silence crackled around them. Going back over to the vanity, he found himself alternating his gaze between his reflection as he used a towel dipped in warmed oil to remove the make-up from his face, and Elsia’s rigid profile.

With each sweep of the towel, revealing his pale skin, he felt even more shame that Elsia had seen him like this.

“I’m done, Elsia.”

She turned to face him. “Did you read the letter?”

It was the last thing he expected her to say. Now that she had, Zelpher gave a small start. “I didn’t. I’d forgotten about it until this moment.”

“Where is it?”

He went to where his coat hung on the coat tree and retrieved the letter.

Elsia’s eyes lingered on it. “I sacrificed much to get that letter to you, Zelpher. The least you could do was read it as soon as it was possible.”

Heat burned his neck. “You’re right, again. I suppose I didn’t want to read it. Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Whatever this letter contains, it is not good news.”

She gave a curt nod. “You are correct.” Going over to the settee, she sat on it. “I’ll wait.”

Swallowing, he broke the waxed sealed on the outside and untangled the locking folds to reveal the letter.

For a moment all he could do was stare at the lovely penmanship that she employed. He'd forgotten how enjoyable it was to simply read a letter from her. Elsia rarely wrote fast or without thought and it showed in every letter of her note.

Then he read the first line and his heart slammed against his rib cage.

I believe it is prudent that you return home.

Zelpher glanced up from that, shaking his head. He folded the letter back up and went to hand it to her. “If this is an appeal for me to return home, then I must tell you that it will not work. I have nothing to say to my parents.”

“Continue reading the letter, Zelpher. Read it in its entirety before making a rash decision.”

“Elsia, there is no use trying to persuade me to do otherwise.”

Her eyes narrowed. A rare note of command entered her voice. “Read the letter, Zelpher.”

He unfolded the letter once again and continued to read the contents.

Two days ago, your father had taken ill, and it is believed he will not survive the next few days.

Zelpher’s legs grew weak. His eyes lifted to hers. She nodded, answering his unspoken question.

With a shaky hand, he grabbed the back of the chair and sank onto it. He wasn’t sure if he could have remained upright.

In other words, Zelpher, your father needs you to come home. I brought this matter to your attention under considerable objection from my father.

Will you come home?

Sebro Devereaux detested her mother. Fortunately for her, the feeling was mutual.

That antagonistic sentiment increased a thousandfold as she sat across from the woman in the small, drafty living room of their tiny home. Beads of water dotted the large window behind them, allowing murky sunshine to pervade the interior.

“You sent Elsia to bring Zelpher back?”

The screech in her voice could have peeled the worn, aged floral wallpaper off the walls. As it was, her mother’s Skye Terrier, a long-haired, prick-eared lapdog named Armine, yapped at her in protest.

Sebro glared down at the dog lying on a satin-covered pillow in a small woven basket by her mother’s feet. If it were up to her, she’d have take a pair of scissors and cut every inch of its fur from its body in retaliation.

She’d known Elsia had gone after Zelpher. Elsia had told her as much when they met earlier in the week. If only she’d known Elsia had gone at the request of her mother, she would have convinced her not to do it.

“Don’t raise your voice, Sebro.” Dinah patted her lap twice and Armine leapt out of the basket to jump up into her mother’s arms. “You’ll upset Armine.”

“As long as Armine isn’t upset.” Sebro’s voice dripped with sarcasm as she eyed the way the dog gave a soft yap of affection.

As always, her mother was fashionably attired. Patterned with a multitude of gray dots, her pink cashmere morning dress flowed over her figure in voluminous folds. Ribbon quilling edged her gown and trimmed the high neck, pockets, and sleeves.

Upon her dark hair rested a cap made of Guipure lace, the crown lined with a bow and tied under her chin with satin ribbons. Straw-hued næuds, a knotted material inserted and tucked against the cap, framed her face.

Her mother made the perfect picture of elegance and domesticity.

Alas! That’s all she was. A facsimile with no substance.

“Mother, why did you do that?”

A look of warning entered her mother’s limpid eyes. “I don’t explain my activities to you, Sebro.”

“It was wrong of you to use Elsia’s weakness against her.”

Dinah sniffed. “I merely suggested a course of action, and she accepted.”

“More likely, you fooled her into thinking she was doing you a favor when, in fact, you are not interested in retrieving Zelpher as much as having him here. Appearances and all.”

Elsia’s one flaw was her cursed infatuation for Zelpher. Sebro knew that what her friend supposed for love was little more than a winter wonderland of fantasy, frozen in time by childish dreams and hope.

It had never melted underneath the harsh, bright light of reality.

She tried many times to cure Elsia of her blind fidelity to Zelpher. He’d done nothing, as far as she could see, to warrant such faithfulness.

“You’re like Penelope, waiting for Odysseus to come back from his long voyage,” she recalled telling Elsia last year, unable to keep the scorn out of her voice. “All the while, he’s entangled in the pleasurable bed of Circe.”

Elsia’s face had paled at that, but she said nothing.

She reined in her thoughts as Dinah said, “Zelpher needs to come home.”

“You were quite adamant about never wanting to see him again when he left.”

Good riddance, she added to herself.

Dinah’s pale face flushed like a stain of carmine. “How distasteful. Your sense of tact sorely needs improvement.”

Sebro leaned forward, her breathing elevated. Needling her mother was a pastime of hers she thoroughly enjoyed. “Mother, I am merely doing my duty as your daughter to remind you of your words when Zelpher left.”

“Remember your state, my daughter,” Dinah snapped back with a decided bite in her voice. “You were an unfortunate circumstance of birth.”

“And whose fault was that?” Sebro retorted.

Armine yapped again. The long tufts of fawn colored hair that normally covered his forehead flapped away, revealing his moist, brown spherical eyes gazing at her in reproach.

Mongrel.

Dinah said nothing, conceding the battle to her by rising from the old settee and setting Armine down on the threadbare carpeted floor.

Sebro’s eyes followed Dinah’s graceful gait, the victory of this bout briefly overrun by a fierce desire for things to be different. Her teeth worried her bottom lip.

Other women seemed to have close camaraderie with their mothers. Why couldn’t she?

Traitor, a voice in her head whispered.

Sebro straightened in the velvet backed chair, the slight melancholy that had assailed her vanishing.

Yes, it was a treacherous thought. Bonaparte would have taken over the world if such gullibility existed as he pursued his military campaigns.

She must never forget her mother was the enemy.

Dinah viewed her appearance in the long mirror against the wall, her hands lovingly caressing her figure. “I hope Mrs. Halley comes soon to check on Bristol. He can be quite exhausting in his current state.”

“Mother, is it in the realm of possibility that you minister help to your own husband?”

Dinah shivered delicately. “Enough, Sebro. I am of a frail constitution and cannot assist. Mrs. Halley does well as a nurse.”

Shaking her head, Sebro glanced at the clock and stood. “I’ll be back by dinner, Mother.”

“Where are you going?”

Her eyebrow arched as she reached down and picked up her broad Leghorn braid bonnet. Sebro allowed herself a hint of a smile when her mother’s limpid eyes followed her as she came to stand next to her in the mirror.

“Mother, let us not suppose this is a query of genuine interest in my comings and goings. We both know you’d rather I’m gone by the time Mrs. Halley arrives. I am making this easy for you.”

Dinah frowned. “You’re dressed rather fine. Where are you going, Sebro?”

She took in her reflection and that of her mother’s. “Only the very astute or those of close acquaintance would know we are of close relationship.”

Dinah narrowed her eyes. “God works small miracles.”

Inured to her mother’s waspishness, Sebro shrugged. Her hickory complexion contrasted with Dinah’s alabaster hue. Her eyes nearly as black as her mother’s were almost clear. She may have taken nothing in appearance from her mother, but she had a strong sense of fashion.

Her walking dress was of the newest design in a pale, almost drab cashmere. A matching cape ended just past her shoulders. Narrow folds of cloth, like the rungs of a ladder, ran the length of the dress, each one lined with three silk buttons.

Placing the bonnet over her center-parted hair, she tied the turquoise satin ribbons under her chin. She slanted a look at Dinah. “I don’t explain my activities to you, Mother.”

Dinah’s face flushed, mottling her skin in an unattractive fashion.

Sebro enjoyed the way she’d used Dinah’s own words against her.

Armine barked at their feet, and Sebro bent and lifted the dog, shoving the furry animal into her mother’s arms. “Take care of the dog. Don’t worry about me.”

Lifting a blood-red Indian scarf and draping it carelessly around her shoulders, she gave her mother one last look before leaving the house.

As she walked, the tension along her shoulders eased. Though she didn’t answer to her mother anymore, it was uncanny that Dinah suspected her actions today. Was it some remnant of a mother’s intuition that gave rise to her suspicions? Perhaps her mother sensed the purpose behind her leaving home today.

Sebro headed west on Grand Street. Her home lay a few streets away from the Five Points district. It wasn’t far enough in her mind. She longed to escape, and would do whatever she had to do.

Bitterly, she recalled the words of the great Charles Dickens: “… all that is loathsome, drooping, and decayed is here.”

The colored community of Five Points hardly agreed with the assessment. This was their home, after all.

Further, the Irish flooded into the area for the past few years, as they fled the Great Famine in their homeland. They couldn’t live in areas where the homes stood stately and regal, now could they? Row houses built on top of what was once the Collect Pond provided a home for the new immigrants.

She likened her position to that of the Irish – to stay was to die. To leave was to live.

Though her situation wasn’t as dire, it was not the one she wanted to exist in anymore.

The further away from home she went, the more beautiful the buildings became. Passing Broadway and Mercer streets, she arrived at the intersection on Laurens Street. She turned south and soon saw the spire of St. John’s Chapel in the distance. Her heart lifted at the sight, before her gaze drifted from the church to the exclusive square surrounding the church and its namesake park, St. John’s Park.

The newspapers had called this area of New York ‘a spot of Eden loveliness’, occupied by the elite of the city and descendants of the early founders. Homes of ornate elegance graced her sight, large and gleaming like jewels.

She wanted to live in this world.

Today may be the first step to attain her goal.

Remembering what she’d read in Godey’s Lady’s Book, she tempered her stride, recalling what that greatest of publications had said about the female stride.

“…the gait should be in harmony with the person — natural and tranquil…”

She had to look the part she so desperately wanted.

As she neared St. John’s Park, a man loitering along the square straightened from a tree. His eyes fixed on her as she neared. A tall man, with ice-blue eyes and blond hair. He wasn’t a handsome man, but neither was he unattractive. He fell in the middling space of average and not extraordinary in looks.

That didn’t matter, though. What he lacked in looks, he made up for in other areas. His clothes fitted well, dressed in a dark gray frock coat with black pants. He’d taken off his top hat, and she noted the gray necktie about his neck along with a silvery waistcoat of fine material.

Yes, he made up for his lack in other areas.

“Juffrouw Devereaux,” he greeted in an even voice as she came to stand abreast of him.

Though this wasn’t the first time she’d met him, it was the first time she would try to lure a man in. The smile she planned on giving she had practiced many times in the mirror.

Now it was time to see its effect.

Sebro unleashed her weapon, curving her mouth playfully, revealing an expression that both teased and flirted with subtle, seductive undertones.

The man’s eyes lit up and Sebro mentally purred as she said, “Goedenmiddag, Mijnheer van der Heuvel.”

Ciara Halley pulled back the dingy white lace curtains from the single window in the small room. North of her abode, sunlight landed on the red-slated roof of The Old Brewery. Dark smoke chugged from three of its chimneys.

Movement from below drew her eyes downward.

Paradise Park or Paradise Square, depending on who you talked to, was choked with the crush of the poor of humanity of all races. The buildings, old and decrepit lined the mass of people, imprisoning them. The prisoners were merchant vendors, gang members, laborers, factory workers, construction men, maids, night soil men, prostitutes, carriage drivers, and others passing each other in the street.

All fighting for survival within its confines however they could.

“How long are ye gonna be gone, wife?”

At the sound of Brendan’s voice, Ciara let the curtain fall away.

“Och, I dunno,” she said as she lifted a threadbare gray shawl and wrapped it around her pale, washed-out blue blouse. She went over to the small oval mirror by the door. “Meessus Knight’s a kind soul. She pays me better’n what’s I’d get from one o’ those hoity toity madame’s, I’d tell ya. Meester Knight’s doin’ better for my help.”

Brendan grunted, rubbing his short dark beard. “Ya would do better workin’ for one of them.”

“I’m sure.” Ciara patted her hair, taking a last look at her appearance. Thinking of Mrs. Knight, she knew she couldn’t compete with that woman’s finery. The blouse was several years old, her dark green skirt tattered and patched in places. A single petticoat kept the material from rubbing against her skin.

“But then they wouldna been as kind as Meessus Knight.” Inwardly she shuddered. Most Irish women who had come over had to endure harsh employment contracts from employment agencies. Blessings to Saint Brigid, one of the patron saints of the poor, for guiding her path to placing her with a scrupulous agency who treated the Irish women that came to their door fair.

She sashayed over to where Brendan stood and lifted her arms to wrap them around his neck. “‘Cause of ye, I don’ have to be workin’ for one of them. And ye can have yer wife whenever ye feel like it.”

Brendan’s hands reached down and grabbed her bottom, lifting her up for a deep, hard kiss. “Aye, there is that,” he smirked, his dark eyes gleaming.

She liked that Brendan always looked at her as if she were the most beautiful woman that ever lived, although they both knew she wasn’t.

Ciara had never been a beauty. Too skinny, too gaunt, and too pale. And that was before the Famine swept over the country.

In fact, if she’d been a pretty woman, she never would have met her Brendan.

“If I wanted a fine colleen, I’d gotten any o’ them,” he’d told her that day long ago, as they lay naked in the tall, thick grass under the shade of a sprawling tree on the outskirts of her village. A handsome man with dark hair and features, his eyes nearly black, he’d drawn the attention of young women like bees to pollen.

Only she was the one to draw his eyes. “It’s ye I want, Ciara, mo leannán. Forever.”

Though they’d just been reunited for six months after two and a half years apart, she never doubted Brendan’s fidelity to her. He was an honest man. Had she found a woman lying next to him in bed, stark naked as the day she was born, Brendan would be fully clothed with a knife between them.

“Well, ye know what’s best.” Brendan patted her bottom as she drew away to get ready to leave. “That Meessus Knight ain’t did us wrong none. She did give ye the name of the man and I got that job at the factory.”

“Aye,” Ciara said slowly, the corner of her mouth tightening.

Although Brendan got the job at the factory, it had come at a cost to those who worked there. The owner, one of the few to embrace the idea of a workman’s union, had fired most who were native non-union workers and hired a slew of Irish in their stead, Brendan being one of them. Which only exacerbated the grievances against Irish.

Nativists, elite or not, hated them, distrustful of their Catholic faith and allegiance to Rome and the Supreme Pontiff.

What were they supposed to have done? Should her people have simply stayed in their homeland and died? Thousands were dying every day, whole villages decimated.

Ciara thanked the Holy Virgin that she’d not had a child before the Famine came. While she waited for Brendan to send for her, she’d seen too many children in her village die. Blight destroyed the potato crops of which their livelihood was dependent on.

Many villages stank with the scent of the dead and the hopelessness. It was either stay and die or leave and live.

She glanced toward the window again. She and Brendan were fortunate to have an end unit of the row house to see outside. Others who lived above and below them hadn’t such luxury.

In the village she’d grown up in, she’d been surrounded by fresh air, and the scent of the fields, the warmth of the sun. Hard living, yes. But nothing prepared her for living in the city.

Twelve weeks across the ocean in crowded steerage, fighting to survive against those who would take advantage of her. When Ciara landed in New York Harbor, she was thrown into an alien existence of a place that pulsed, screamed, and reeked.

“We canna go worryin’ ‘bout the rest of it, mo leannán.”

Ciara blinked, coming out of her thoughts. Seeing Brendan’s understanding gaze, she shook her head, amused as always that her husband seemed to read her mind. The issues of the day, such as they were, filled her mind with worry.

“I know. Now dontcha be goin’ to the saloon tonight, Brendan. It’s yer one day off and when I get back, I want ye to myself.”

Brendan’s dark eyes sparked at the subtle invitation. “Talk like that will get ye in trouble, woman. If ye hurry back, we’ll go to the Bowery. Forrest is there tonight.”

Ciara squealed with glee. “Och! Brendan, you scoundrel!”

She ran and jumped into his arms. Easily he lifted her, holding her tightly with one arm around her waist and the other gripping her hair as he held her still for a long kiss. When he’d had his fill minutes later, her legs weak and wobbly, he set her down and pushed her towards the door. Ciara stumbled, her pale cheeks finally flushed with blood.

“Go on now,” Brendan teased with a knowing look.

Dreamily, she went down the narrow rickety staircase, careful to step over the one or two that had loose boards, just waiting for one of the drunk souls that traversed up and down these stairs to fall through. Oh, how she loved that man!

Once she made it to the streets, Ciara hunkered down and went on about her business, going to her place of employment with Mrs. Dinah Knight. The press of people all around was still something she had to get used to. She kept her reticule close to her, careful to ensure no pickpockets with sleight of hand could take what little meager earnings she had.

Violence occurred daily in Five Points, but it wasn’t that different from other places, she remembered Brendan had told her.

During her walk, she cast her eyes over the many Negroes she passed. The Irish and Negro were seen as scourges. Depictions of both races as ape-like caricatures in satire articles abound in magazines and papers heavily patronized by the Nativists.

How often had she seen advertisements stating, “No Irish Need Apply”? It didn’t matter if the position was for a clerk in a store or hotel, coachman, or any other job. How often had she, if she walked toward some grand woman in the street, had that woman cross over to the other side?

Between the Negro and the Irish, it seemed a tug-of-war between them, each wanting to gain a foothold of respectability in a country that despised them.

The difference being that as an Irish woman, she chose to come here where the free Negroes were either emancipated Negroes who had once been slaves, or their descendants.

For herself and Brendan, they had no quarrel with Negroes or any other race. In fact, some of the members of the Negro church on Center Street had provided necessities for them on occasion.

Perhaps it had to do with her own grandfather’s stories of being an indentured servant for many years, forced to deal with hardships, hatred, and low wages. Her grandfather had taught her to treat people as she wanted to be treated like the Scriptures said.

But other forces out there chose to see differently…

Ciara sighed as she continued her walk, turning her thoughts to Mrs. Knight. The white woman didn’t live too far from the center of Five Points. Compared to her one room apartment, Mrs. Knight’s home was grand. Always the woman had the latest in fashion on her body, and the grace and poise of a true lady. Yet, she never treated Ciara cruelly. When the woman had asked Ciara to see after her husband who fell ill, she’d been more than happy to do so.

Pure as the Virgin’s heart, Mrs. Knight was!

When she arrived at the house, her employer greeted her along with the strange, little dog she wasn’t seen without. After she went to see to Mr. Knight, who, through her steady ministrations, was looking better, she did some housework for the woman and then enjoyed a nice cup of tea. They chatted desultorily when Mrs. Knight asked, “What are your plans for the evening, Mrs. Halley?”

“My Brendan’s takin’ me to the Bowery. Forrest is playing there tonight.”

“Forrest?” The woman looked horrified, and Ciara’s ears burned. Who was she to mention Forrest in this home?

“Aye. Don’t ye like Forrest, Meessus Knight?”

With a shaky hand, Ciara set down the dainty cup and patted her lap, the little hairy dog leaping onto it. “Well, I’m partial to Macready myself.”

A tense silence settled between them. That small comment had changed the dynamic of the conversation. Suddenly, fond as she was of Mrs. Knight, they were in two different social classes, and she’d best do well to remember that.

“Do you have any children, Mrs. Halley?”

Grateful for the change of subject, Ciara latched on with a hurried, “Oh no, Meessus Knight. I’m hopin’ to someday. Strappin’ boys like me Brendan.”

“I have two children. My son, Zelpher and my daughter.”

She waited to hear what the daughter’s name was but when Mrs. Knight said nothing more, she replied. “That so?”

“Hmmm,” Mrs. Knight said, rubbing the dog behind his ear. Armine leaned into the caress, his back leg pumping up and down in an uncontrollable way. “He’s been away for a few years, but when Mr. Knight fell ill, I sent one of the colored girls from the neighborhood to retrieve him. He should be here in a day or so. I’m looking forward to his returning home.”

“I’m right glad for ye, Meessus Knight.”

She bowed her head in a regal way as if she were a queen giving acquiescence to her loyal subject. Everything about her employer was smooth and elegant. Ciara could only hope to have such lady-like grace. “Thank you.”

Before long, Ciara finished her tea and put away the dishes.

On her way back home, she thought about their differences in the theater. Ciara couldn’t hold that against the woman. She was kind and that was enough.

Her feet hurried down the street, thinking of the night ahead.

To see Edwin Forrest was to see the fruition of what the everyman wanted. He’d worked his way up from poverty and obscurity to wealth and fame. Brendan told her that Forrest had reached a point in his career that he earned two hundred dollars a night for his performances. Compared to the almost two dollars a week Brendan earned, it was a fortune. No one faulted the man for his wealth, for he had temperate habits and a work ethic that kept him well-heeled.

For too long, the theater was plagued by British actors, but Forrest was widely known as the American Tragedian, rising above the likes of Macready to become known all over the world.

Yet, he still performed at the Bowery, never forgetting the everyman.

Yes, she was looking forward to seeing Forrest tonight!

Once upon a time, Zelpher longed for the day his parents pleaded for his help. That wistful refrain followed him as he turned his back on Five Points, determined to forge his path and confound anyone who had something to say about it.

Now the reality was a bitter herb.

Zelpher listened as church bells rang out a sweet melody into the tranquility of the early morning hush.

Two lone, hairy hogs loitered in the street, snorting through the piles of debris. The animals unearthed the carcass of a dead dog, its lower half crushed. Squealing, they crowded around the animal.

Zelpher recoiled, his stomach heaving, when rickety wheels on the cracked pavement pulled his gaze to the welcomed, albeit unusual, sight of a lone night soil cartman on a Sunday morning. The man stopped next to a small hill of manure.

A fellow scavenger.

The man grabbed a shovel. Whistling, he dug into the hill, and ladled the manure onto the bed, next to something hidden under a tarp. Probably another mound of manure. He’d sell the excrement as fertilizer but refused to remove the rest of the garbage.

The perpetual stench of standing water, clogged privies, and rotted food perfumed the area. Zelpher inhaled the familiar scents as a thousand memories surged forward. The aroma welcomed him back like a warm embrace or a kind word.

Zelpher’s chest caved in. With shaking fingers, he retrieved the well-worn letter from his vest pocket and read the contents again.

Two days had passed since Elsia delivered her dire message. He’d gone through the gamut of emotions as he prepared to return. His desertion of the acting troupe hadn’t pleased David Needle, but the acting manager couldn’t do anything about it. The room he let was transient. He settled his account and left.

Putting the paper back into his vest pocket, he glanced up and down Centre Street before he crossed over and stood before the stately brick edifice of St. Philip’s.

Zelpher felt his chest tighten as his gaze traveled over the familiar façade of the building. Built in clean lines, the church towered above him.

His eyes grazed the stained-glass windows, recalling the fateful day when rioters ransacked the holy place.

Ugly men threw the Eucharistic candles at the windows, smashing them into a thousand pieces. Cruel hands hauled the walnut pews out and set them ablaze. Jeering and snarling faces roped in glee destroyed the organ, broke the altar table, and tore up the carpets.

His father had lamented, saying, “More than the material demise, those vagrants desecrated our church with their hatred.”

Zelpher shook his head as he remembered the riot that happened fifteen years ago. He’d been a boy until that night. Afterward, he’d become a man.

Zelpher rubbed the back of his neck. What was he now? He didn’t know. He hadn’t entered a house of worship in almost three years. How could he go back in there?

How could he not? His father was sick, possibly on his deathbed.

Zelpher let his hand fall to his side as he took in a deep breath. He walked up to the door as the muted sound of an organ played reverently. He closed his eyes and leaned against the door, pressing his ear against it.

The organ music stopped. He pressed closer to the door, straining to hear.

Faint shuffling. Movement. Then, the clear voices of the congregation spoke. He mouthed the words of the liturgy he hadn’t spoken in years but knew by heart:

“All desires known,” he whispered aloud, his heart pounding as he considered that line of the collect, or prayer, of purity. Had he fooled himself for the past three years?

Zelpher gripped the handle of the door. Sweat moistened his palm. Briefly, he thought about turning back and returning to his life.

What life? Playing nominal roles in dramatic pieces that would never gain the infamy he’d once longed for?

Firming his lips, he tightened his hand and then opened the door.

A cool draft blew against his face as he entered the vestibule. Swiftly, he closed the door and peered through the glass doors. The congregants rose to their feet. Zelpher rolled his shoulders. “I can do this.”

Gripping the handles of both doors, he pulled them apart and walked into the sanctuary.

A sea of dark and light-skinned faces turned as one toward the door. The prick of all their eyes, like needles, dug into his skin. Their surprise, then censure, became palpable.

A gruff voice sounded out in the brief silence. “What the devil—!”

He flinched, recognizing that voice in an instant. Someone shushed the man. Reverend Thompson gave a loud, deliberate cough, with enough force to bring attention back to the matter at hand.

Worship.

The parishioners turned back around. Commotion drew his eyes to the right of the sanctuary.

Someone moved down the pew line toward the back, uncaring if others would see the action as intrusive. The last person leaned back to allow whoever it was to pass.

Zelpher came face to face with the dark glance of his sister. His back tensed, teeth grinding.

Without looking left or right, she marched toward him. The other women dressed in subdued tones of black, grays, browns, or dark blues. His sister’s gold-colored flouncy skirt with its ornate, black-trimmed bodice drew attention.

Zelpher sighed. Some things never changed.

When she reached him, she took his arm and tried to lead him away.

Zelpher resisted, not wanting to succumb to her wishes. But he didn’t want to cause a scene. With a drawn-out sigh, he allowed her to lead him out of the church and onto the pavement. When the door shut, his sister whirled around. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard about Father.”

“Did you?” Her eyebrow lifted into her hairline. “Don’t tell me his imminent death is enough to bring you back home?”

His heart fell to his feet. Was he already too late?

A cold sweat appeared on his brow. “Is it imminent?”

His sister’s stiff stance relaxed, the coldness in her dark gaze melting away. “No. That was wrong of me.”

Tension eased out of his body, almost weak with relief. The next instant, his nostrils flared, and he narrowed his eyes. How dare his sister frighten him like that!

His lips twisted. “A rare day, you admitting to your folly.”

“Rare, indeed.” The tightness around her eyes came back. “You return home to do something for someone other than yourself.”

Her utter scorn raised goosebumps along his back, scraping against the material of his cotton shirt.

Poking his tongue into his cheek, he clipped out, “Is he home?”

She sniffed. “What do you think?”

“Why are you here? Do something for Father for once.”

“The man who hates me? Why would I?”

“Because that’s what a daughter does!”

Her gaze hardened like shards of black ice. “Why you—!”

“Zelpher!”

He turned at the sound of Elsia’s voice. She, too, had left the service, which would have displeased her father.

In contrast to his sister’s showy garb, Elsia stood by them, modest in a navy-blue skirt and plain matching bodice. White satin ribbons adorned her bonnet.

“Elsia, you shouldn’t be out here.”

She waved away his sister’s concern. “Sebro, you of all people know I wouldn’t let you kill each other.”

Zelpher straightened his shoulders. “I’d hardly do that, Elsia.”

Sebro’s eyes narrowed as she said, “Of that, I am sure. It would require skill only a man would possess.”

His nostrils flared.

“Really, Sebro,” Elsia admonished in her gentle voice, trying to quench the sparks between himself and his sister. Three years’ absence and that hadn’t changed either. “No need to cause strife. Your brother has only this morning returned.”

Sebro lifted her chin. “He should not have. Our mother didn’t miss him while he was gone.”

Sebro’s verbal arrow struck the center of his chest, piercing his heart with its sharp tip.

Elsia shook her head and laid a gloved hand on his sister’s arm as if she were restraining her. “Sebro, that was unkind.”

Blood pounded at Zelpher’s temples, and he took in a sharp breath, readying his own weapon. After all, they matched well in the artillery of insult.

“It may be true that Mother and Father haven’t missed me — but I’m sure they haven’t given you their love, either.”

A sharp gasp erupted from Elsia. “Zelpher!”

He couldn’t look away from the hardening planes of his sister’s face as his arrow struck deep and true. Yet, the only sign of the wound he’d inflicted on her was the flattening of her lips.

The silence lingered for a long moment before Sebro pivoted away and went back into the church.

He’d won that bout, but the war raged on.

Elsia’s brown eyes gazed at him with reproach. “Must you always be at odds with your sister and my friend?”

He didn’t answer her. There was no need to.

Instead, he asked a question of his own. “What do you know of my father’s health?”

“Enough to know we can discuss this after service. Come along, Zelpher.”

He opened the door for her and followed her back inside. She went back to her father’s side while he slid into one of the back pews. Taking off his hat, he gathered his wits as he fell back into the routine of the service.

“Brothers and sisters now let us repeat together,” Reverend Thompson intoned.

Zelpher’s mouth opened and fell into the antiphony.

“Lord have mercy!”

That was a preview of The Butcher's Daughter: A Story of Black Gotham. To read the rest purchase the book.

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