Olivia: Letters to Agnes

by Quill Swipple

Olivia ran away during the night. Wrapping what she had left of The Plight of Roufoide, several blank pages, nightgown, stockings, and her box of writing supplies into her blanket, she had tied it in a secure knot, flung it over her shoulder, and snuck out while the other girls were asleep, her flat pillow under her arm. Walking quietly had been difficult, but she managed to escape out the backdoor. They would notice she was gone by morning. But by then she'd be away. She would be far away.

Mrs. Opperheim had been asleep in her bed and the office was empty. Olivia took the time to take a few coins from the top drawer of the desk, sufficient enough money to last her a few days, perhaps even buy a train ticket, but not enough so that Mrs. Opperheim would notice right away. Olivia felt terrible about stealing, but she had to if she wanted to survive away from what had been, for thirteen years, her home. She had moved about the office quickly, frightened, like a mouse tentatively searching for food.

It had been then when she saw the file drawers, with information on every girl in the orphanage. Her hand went to the "S" drawer, but she quickly pulled back with a surprised gasp as she heard creaking in the hallway. Footsteps. Olivia limped as quietly as she could to the door and looked down the hallway. It was the only way out, and at that time Olivia didn't think anyone would be there, despite the groaning of the floorboards.

Please don't let it be Mr. Meyer, Olivia had thought to herself. Please don't let it be Mrs.Opperheim. She glanced around briefly before stepping out, her own feet causing the floorboards to voice their disapproval. But as she had stopped, there came another creak, directly behind her. With a gasp, she turned.

Whistle had been standing there, wringing her nightgown between her hands. Her downy blonde hair was sticking out all over, matted from sleeping on a pillow. She had been rubbing the area around her missing eye and watching Olivia.

"Wheah're you goin',?" she asked in a whisper. "You ain' runnin' away, is ya?"

Olivia had bit her lip. "I'm . . . I have to go. I'm going to find my family."

"You're goin' ta France?" Whistle had returned with a disbelieving scoff.

"Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not."

"You still t'ink dey's real even though Mrs. Opperheim said dey ain't?"

"She could have been lying. And I don't care if it's true or not."

Olivia had turned to go, tucking the coins into her pocket.

"Livia."

"Yes?"

"Be ca'eful."

"Thank you, Cora," Olivia had murmured, nodding a goodbye. They were the last words she ever spoke at that orphanage.

And Olivia had left, and wandered until her leg ached. Stopping in an alleyway, she had set her pillow down and curled up on the ground, untying her blanket and pulling it over her. Getting away had been the easy part. Surviving was what was difficult.

By now, the sunlight shone in through the mouth of the alley and Olivia awoke slowly. Her leg ached from walking and her breasts ached from Meyer. Her eyes scanned the alleyway as she repacked her bag and stood to start moving again. The city, once she was free from that prison she called home, seemed so much larger. And after her incident with Jacob Meyer, she felt frightened to be out in the world, alone. She didn't know how many people like him there were. Men who would abuse crippled girls. The whole idea sickened her. But she knew that if she had stayed in the orphanage, she would never be free of him. And she knew that she would amount to nothing, just like her history was said to have been. Nothing. She was going to be someone, and she was going to do the Roufoides justice. She was going to make them proud, whether or not they existed solely in her imagination.

Olivia counted the coins that jingled in her pocket and wondered if it would be enough to buy a train ticket. She had to either get away from the city or not be able to be found. The Children's Aid Society would come looking for her. The police would come looking for her. And she would be sent back. But a train ticket could allow her to escape and not have to hide. She certainly couldn't get to France that way, but she could go to a place where she could reach a boat. Boston, perhaps.

Before she found a train to Boston she had to find Letty. She had to talk to someone about what happened or she felt she would break down in tears every time she thought of it. She couldn't hold it all inside. Olivia didn't know where her friend was, but she was sure she was in the city. Somewhere.

Her shoes were worn, causing her feet to ache with exhaustion. She felt as if the shoes were becoming smaller with each step. The coins clinked together as she walked down the bustling streets of New York City in late afternoon. Stopping to set her things down for a moment, she stretched her arms, inhaling the air and taking in the monstrosity of her surroundings.

She never knew the city was so large, so vibrant with life! The stores had brightly painted logos on their windows, the area behind the newly polished glass filled with colourful, fascinating displays. Children, clinging to their mother's skirts, pointed and jumped at the sight of toys in the window and tugged on her sleeve, begging in poorly anunciated, high-pitched voices. Merchants pushed carts of fruit down the street as they sold their wares. Horses whinnied and snorted as they pulled carriages down the street with the clip-clop-clip-clop-clip of their hooves.Poor flower sellers stood outside doorways, holding out roses in bony fingers and begging in thick accents for the men exiting to, "Please buy a rose for your lady friend, two-a-penny." Olivia could hear bursts of fragmented English as immigrants starting out in business argued with customers demanding lower prices. Newsboys shouted the day's headlines at every corner, selling Worlds, Journals, and Suns. She could smell fresh bread and imported spices, the aroma of a busy open city intoxicating her, both acrid and fresh at the same time. To think that Olivia had lived in the city her entire life, and never really experienced it!

The pain that Olivia was in became quickly forgotten as she picked up her bundle and pillow, beginning to wander. The city was so beautiful, the buildings all so large, the people all so different from one another. It made her smile as she watched the intricate movements of each individual nearby; the way they walked, gestured, smiled. What a marvelous machine the human body was. What a marvelous generator for that machine the human soul was. She wondered who each person was, what their story could be, what their lives were like. As she limped down the street, she found herself developing stories in her mind for people that she watched. She wished she'd run away from the orphanage so much earlier!

"Wuxtry! Wuxtry! Read awl about it in dis latest issue o' da New Yawk Sun, Tel-ee-gram, Woild, 'r Joinal! Penny-a-pape! Read awl about da big robb'ry on Fulton! Two shot on account o' da big robb'ry! Get da latest wuxtry right 'ere! Wuxtry!"

Olivia's attention was drawn to the boisterous teenage boy waving a newspaper in the air, a thin bundle of them under his arm, and a thick one at his feet. Whenever a pending customer approached, he thrust the newspaper into their face and shouted the headline, along with a lusty "Wuxtry! Wuxtry! Read awl about it!" Olivia, for the life of her, couldn't figure out exactly what a "wuxtry" was.

Once the newsboy finished selling a Sun to a slightly startled customer, he went back to his shouting. Olivia approached him, adjusting the makeshift sack over her shoulder.

He turned to her. His hair was thick and blond, and he had enthusiastic green eyes beneath expressive eyebrows. Olivia yelped as the boy thrust another paper toward her.

"Wuxtry, miss! Read awl about da big robb'ry on Fulton! Get da latest wuxtry! Sun, Tel-ee-gram, Woild, Joinal!"

Olivia's expression was quite different from that of the robust grin on the boy's heavily freckled face. She was slightly wary of his forwardness and it made her tense, particularly after the previous day's events.

"Excuse me," she said in a polite, mild tone, "but what's a 'wuxtry'?"

"You dunno what a 'wuxtry' is?" said the boy with a good-natured laugh. When Olivia shook her head with a blank expression, he went on. "A 'wuxtry' be a special edition of a pape. Which is most awl editions now."

"Pape?"

"Pape. Paper. Newspaper. Ya know." He wiggled the paper in front of her face, the edges of the pages brushing against her nose. Olivia scrunched her nose and ducked the waving paper.

"I see," she said, her eyes following the paper that he was so madly waving. When he saw a man approaching, he barked his, "Wuxtry! Wuxtry!" in his direction and gave him a Journal upon his request. Once the newsboy had finished with his customer, he looked back to Olivia with a cocky grin.

"You sell newspapers?" she asked, setting her luggage down.

The boy stared at her as if she had a tail and two heads. "Yeah, goil, I do. 'Course I do. Dere's one of us on ev'ry corner, maybe even more. How couldja not know?"

"I . . . haven't lived here very long," Olivia attempted.

His brow raised. "Hey, listen. I got a whole bunch ta sell an' I can't waste me time tawkin' to a goil who don' know what a newsie do. You gonna buy one 'r what?"

Olivia pulled the coins from her pocket and looked them over. "A penny?"

He nodded.

She counted the money again, gingerly picking a penny from the pile of coins on her palm. One penny wouldn't ensure that she couldn't buy a train ticket to get out. She could buy a paper. It was important she knew what was going on in the city. Awkwardly, she handed it to him.

He quirked his eyebrow again, sifting through the papers under his arm as he looked at the coin. His other eyebrow rose to meet the other as he looked to her expectantly.

"What?"

"Which one do ya want?" asked the boy, prompting her.

"World, Sun, Journal, and Telegram, am I right?"

"Dat's right," he replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the next.

"Which one's best?"

"Criminy, goil, I sell 'em awl. I ain' more partial to one den anudder. C'mon, pick. I ain't got awl day."

Olivia dropped the rest of her money into her pocket and held out the penny. "I'd like a World, then, please."

The newsboy snatched the penny from her palm and thrust over a New York Journal in place of it. No sooner than the paper was out of his hand did he begin his vociferant hollers of newspaper headlines again.

Olivia knelt down and untied her blanket, folding the newspaper into thirds and placing it with her other things. Retying it, she tossed it over her shoulder and stood, grabbing her pillow. She would read the paper later. Once she found an alley to sleep in, or a place to stay. But where she would sleep wasn't her major concern. She was ravenously hungry, and her stomach growled impatiently without any food in it.

The coins jingled as she limped down the street, unnoticed by those who passed her. Her mind drifted to what sorts of food she could eat in the city. Real food, not the lumpy gruel and hardtack that she grew up on. Soft bread, thick chicken soup, ice cold milk. Her mouth watered at the idea and she lost all thought of the train ticket. She needed to eat before she could do anything else. And if it meant spending that money, she had to do it. Olivia wasn't going to steal again.

She just hoped she could find a way to get that ticket.

"Please, sir," Olivia said quietly, tapping her fingers timidly on the train station desk. "I need to go to Boston. I'm only one penny short. Please, I need to get there."

"If we don't get that penny, then you don't get that ticket," replied the man in the booth gruffly. He was a large man in his late fifties, with a handlebar moustache and a pompous attitude. For five minutes, Olivia had been pleading with him to allow her on the train. Those lined up behind her had either switched lines or begun to complain.

"Sir, you don't understand how important this is to me. If I can't get to Boston, I—"

"Listen, little girl," he barked, "I don't have the time to argue with you. No penny, no ticket."

The man slammed the shade that broadly proclaimed CLOSED and the people behind Olivia began yelling and arguing amongst each other. She picked up her pillow and bundle with resignation after tucking her money into her pocket, and limped away from the line. She could hear the shade roll up again as soon as she left, the customers calming and going back about their business.

Olivia dejectedly sank down onto a bench outside, inhaling the sooty air and tucking her hair behind her ears. If she hadn't bought that paper, she would have had her ticket to Boston. She would have been on her way. Opening up her blanket, she pulled out the crumpled paper and looked it over.

The New York World, for the twenty-sixth of August, 1901. Her eyes skimmed the pages. She wasn't particularly interested in reading the paper, but she needed to keep her eyes focused on the words to keep them from filling with futile tears. The Children's Aid Society would definitely find her and send her back. They'd never believe her if she tried to tell them how terrible Mrs. Opperheim's home for orphan girls was.

God, she could never go back.

She bit her lip as she closed her eyes, hot tears forced through her closed lids. Her hands clenched the pages of the newspaper, knuckles white and fingers red. It crinkled and tore under the force of her grip. She crumpled the papers between her hands as tightly as she could, cursing it quietly. How could she have been so stupid? With a desperate sob, Olivia threw the newspaper as far from her as it would go. Her hands raked back through her hair and her head went between her knees as she cried harder.

She could feel the seams of her sleeves stretch and strain against the pressure of her position. The dress was ripped enough already, sewn back together with hasty, clumsy stitches; a constant reminder of who had torn the fabric. She dug her jagged fingernails into her palms in an attempt to keep from screaming at her own stupidity. To get away had been her first priority, but she just had to go and buy a—

"Is this yours?"

The sweet, gentle voice jarred Olivia from her crying and she looked up slowly with a surprised whimper, blinking tears away to clear her vision. A gnarled, bony hand came into focus, holding the large ball of crumpled newspaper.

Olivia cleared her throat and reached out to take the paper awkwardly, nodding. She spread it out again and set it on her blanket with a whispered, "Thank you."

"Lands, child," said the woman, kneeling down to her. Their eyes finally met.

A pair of sparkling jade orbs sparkled youthfully, open and wide between flaps of wrinkled skin. Her flaccid eyelids were painted brightly blue, lined with black, her eyebrows coloured in with brown pencil. Deep pink rouge was splashed upon her pale, drooping cheeks, red lipcolour filled in her bloodless lips. Upon her snow-white upsweep of thinning curls sat a feathered lavender and black hat with an extremely wide brim.

The woman smiled. A smile that must have been beautiful once, but made awkward with receding whitening gums and bits of lipstick on her front teeth. But it was genuine and kind, which made it the most beautiful thing Olivia had ever seen.

"Child, what happened?"

Olivia looked down, embarrassed, and ripped off a bit of newspaper to wipe her eyes. The wetness of her cheeks caused the print to run and make gray streaks along her face. She sniffled, biting her lip. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you, I—"

"Shh . . ." she cooed, "shh, shh, shh." The woman took Olivia's wrist. Her skin was soft, weak. Gently unhooking Olivia's tense fingers from the bit of newspaper and sliding it away from her, she reached into her glittered bag and pulled out a lavender kerchief, placing it into her hand.

"There now, there now. Dry those tears proper, child."

Too weak from crying, Olivia didn't bother to argue. She wiped her tears and the newspaper ink from her cheeks with the soft fabric of the handkerchief gratefully.

The woman patted Olivia's knee gently, and rested her hand there. Her fingers were adorned with large, gaudy rings, nails scandalously painted red.

"That's better, child. What's your name, dear?"

Olivia cleared her throat, clogged with mucus from her sobbing. "O-Olivia. Olivia Swipple, ma'am."

Where Olivia expected to hear that ever-familiar "Bad luck for you," she heard:

"It's very nice to meet you, Miss Olivia."

Olivia looked up at the woman, who was smiling again. Curious, she brought herself to ask. "W-Who are you?"

"Agnes Elizabeth Mansford Dover," replied the elderly woman who was kneeling before her. "But most people know me as Widow Dover, that crazy lady who lives on Orchard Street."

Agnes laughed. It was a quiet, gentle laugh that comforted Olivia and brought the corners of her mouth to twitch in a delicate smile.

"Well, look at that," Agnes said, her eyes brightening even more. "If that ain't the prettiest little smile I ever did see!"

She poked Olivia in the stomach with her gnarled finger and caused her to giggle, her smile widening, lips curling back to show her teeth.

"No, I was wrong," Agnes smiled, "that's the prettiest smile I ever did see. You really ought to show them more often, Miss Olivia. Would you mind me askin' you why you don't do just that? Why were you crying so, sweetie?"

Olivia went to explain how she was one penny short of buying her train ticket to Boston.

Agnes clicked her tongue against her teeth. "You poor dear, Miss Olivia. But I'd like to think that your bought that paper for a reason. Maybe you weren't meant to head off to Boston."

"But that—that's ridiculous, ma'am. I can't stay here because if I do, I won't . . . the Children's Aid Society will come find me and I'll have to go back to the orphanage. Oh, Mrs. Dover, ma'am, you—you don't understand! I can't go back there . . . I just can't! So many—so many terrible things, I just . . ."

"Orphanage, dearie?" Agnes smiled. "If you don't want to go back there, then I'll make sure they don't do that. You come live with me, dear, and you won't have to go back."

"Begging your pardon, but you don't even know me, ma'am."

"I see something in you, Miss Olivia. Something special. And I know that if you say you don't want to go back, you really do have reasons. I trust you and I can guarantee you can trust me, dear."

"W-Wouldn't you have to adopt me?"

Agnes laughed. "Officially? It's all a bunch of papers that don't mean anything. And believe me, child, I haven't signed one paper since 1876. I'm unofficially adopting you and taking you in. That is, if you'll take my offer, child."

Olivia was hesitant. But if Agnes saw something in Olivia, then Olivia could certainly see something in Agnes. And Agnes truly wanted to help her. Another smile flashed across her features.

"Yes, ma'am—"

"Agnes, love. Call me Agnes."

Olivia stepped up to the house on Twenty-Third Street, to the ivy-covered stairs which caused her to wonder whether it was for artistic beauty or from neglect. The house, in direct contrast to other houses along the street, did not have organized patches in flowers in boxes lining the window sills. Instead, the entire establishment was overgrown with ivy vines, morning glory, and other climbing flowers, covering the chipped and faded paint which must have once been a robin's egg blue. It was imposing to a degree; the windows on the first floor appeared like a prison, vines growing over them and barely showing the lace curtain on the other side of the glass. But the more Olivia looked at the house from the outside, it *was* Agnes. Lavish and unusual, but beautiful. And, like Agnes, Olivia couldn't wait to see what was inside.

When Agnes saw the look of awe on Olivia's features, she laughed heartily. "I don't do much gardening anymore, I'm afraid. I lost my clippers," she said, pulling a key from around her neck and unlocking the door, which opened with a creak.

Agnes stepped in and two cats immediately padded through the foyer and rubbed against the old woman's skirts, mewing and purring. She cooed to them and gently pushed them back so she could step in, and then looked to Olivia, who was still standing on the steps.

"Well? Come in, dearie, come in."

She opened the door wider and allowed Olivia to limp in slowly. The girl's eyes widened as she looked around. Aside from the two cats that were in the foyer, waiting patiently for attention, there were three others that she could see in the foyer and adjoining rooms alone.

One of the cats, a small, sleek one of a grayish-brown colour with a white muzzle and white paws, raced from one of the rooms to Olivia and attacked her untied bootlaces. Olivia jumped with surprise, but then giggled in delight at the cat who chewed furiously on the frayed strings, tangling herself up in them.

"Who's this?" asked Olivia with a laugh as she bent over at the waist to reach her hand out to the adolescent cat. The one white paw that didn't have its claws stuck in her shoelaces batted at Olivia's hand gently. The cat lay on her back, neck twisted to look up at the owner of the fascinating boots.

Agnes smiled fondly, her shoulders rising and falling with a laugh. "That's Serena."

"Serena? She doesn't seem too serene too me."

"She gets these . . . spurts . . . of energy sometimes. But sometimes she'll just hop into my lap and fall asleep there for hours."

Olivia smiled and helped Serena untangle herself from the laces, and then picked her up tentatively, stroking her sleek fur. Serena purred loudly and pushed against her hand.

The floor of the foyer was covered with a thick oriental rug, display shelves covering every inch of the walls. On these shelves were tiny porcelain figurines. It amazed Olivia that with at least five cats, that so many glass treasures could remain intact.

"How did you get all of these?"

"Oh, those," Agnes laughed. "I made those."

"You made them? They're beautiful. And there are so many of them."

"When you live alone for forty years, you've got to do something with your spare time." Agnes gave another lighthearted chuckle as she picked up one of the cats from the floor, an older one with gray stripes and a tan nose. The cat mewed softly and rubbed her head against her owner and Agnes clicked her tongue, speaking in soft tones to her and scratching between the cat's ears. "There's my dear, Nickerson."

"C-Could I look?" Olivia murmured. "At the figurines."

Agnes set down the cat called Nickerson, and then reached up to remove the flamboyant hat from her white curls. She set it on a large hook on the wall, smiling to Olivia. "Go ahead, dear. Go ahead. Here, here, let me take your things," she said, going over to Olivia and taking the makeshift bag and pillow. "I have a room all set up for you."

Olivia looked to the elderly woman who was on her way up the stairs. "You do?"

"Oh, yes," Agnes replied. "I had a feeling one day I would have a guest. Now, you make yourself comfortable and I will find you something to wear, since your dear dress there is too small and is ripped something terrible."

And with that, the woman disappeared up the stairs with Olivia's luggage.

"What a peculiar sort of woman," sad Olivia to Serena as she limped further into the house, her eyes drifting over the figurines that lined the shelves. There had to be hundreds of them in that room alone.

"I wonder why she makes all of these. Do you ever wonder, Miss Serena?" Olivia giggled and scratched the cat's neck. "But then, I suppose you already know, hm? If you could talk, you'd tell me, wouldn't you? I should hope so. But now I just have to guess, I do suppose."

She approached one of the shelves and shifted Serena to one arm, her fingers reaching out to gingerly touch the edge of the mahogany shelf. Serena's bright green eyes blinked as they followed the inkstained hand which had previously been petting her.

All of the figurines were of people. Everyday people, and it seemed as though Agnes had the entire population if New York recreated in her foyer. She had shelves of the wealthy aristocrats, the middle class, the very poor. Men, women, and children that appeared so lifelike, as if they had been shrunken and frozen in time. Olivia watched the faces of each one, and was able to see definite emotion in all of their faces, eyes wide and expressive. What an observer Agnes was, to have made such exquistite art! Every figurine seemed real, and just from how they were positioned, Olivia could have created a story about any of their lives.

"My God," Olivia whispered in awe, touching the tiny porcelain cast of a small girl with dark hair and a deformed leg. "It's me."

The morning sun shone in through the kitchen windows after breakfast, Agnes and Olivia sitting across from each other and sipping their tea. Though Olivia had been given new clothing, a simple skirt and dress ("I'll find something nicer for you tomorrow," Agnes had said), she still felt uncomfortable and restricted in thought of her findings in the foyer. Olivia had been quiet since the discovery of the figurine, and had been waiting for the perfect time to bring it up. Agnes's rambling had been brought to a lull, and silence ensued through the two of them before Olivia spoke up.

"Agnes?"

"Yes, love?"

Olivia looked down and searched through her pockets. She slowly set down the porcelain version of herself onto the table and looked to her expectantly, without a word.

Agnes reached out to gingerly touch the little girl of glass with her gnarled fingers, but looked back to Olivia with equaled expectance. "Yes?"

"It's me."

"It's you?" she said, picking it up and looking it over, and then went to look Olivia over. "My, my, my. I do suppose she does look like you, doesn't it. Mhm. What a little coincidence that is. Hm, hm."

Olivia laced her fingers together and leaned forward in her chair. "Why did you make this, Agnes? Why is it me?"

"It's not you, dear," Agnes replied, placing the figurine back down on the table, her hand shaking. "It's a coincidence. It isn't you."

"Then . . . who is it, if not me?"

Agnes gave a quiet, stifled gasp and Olivia saw the tears well in her eyes. The old woman's hand rose to cover her mouth and nose as she looked away, pulling the kerchief from her dress pocket to dab at her eyes.

"Oh—Oh, Agnes . . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . . to . . . I was just curious, I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me, just please . . . don't cry, I'm sorry, Agnes."

"No . . . No, stop that, Olivia. I—I'll show you who it is, come with me."

Agnes picked up the tiny glass girl again, clasping it in both hands and holding it to her chest as she drifted out of the kitchen and up the stairs in a mass of green muslin and black lace, her footsteps unable to be heard above the rustling of her old-fashioned petticoats and the abundance of fabric. Olivia quickly stood and set her teacup back on its saucer on the table and followed the old woman, her footsteps uneven and loud with her limp.

The stairs creaked loudly as she stepped upon them, her eyes drifting to the peeling paint along the wall. It almost reminded her of Mrs. Opperheim's office in the orphanage, but it was blue rather than white, and every so often, Olivia would come across a single strip of patterned wallpaper, comfortable in its solitude and state of disrepair. It was as if Agnes had wanted to paper the walls but couldn't choose a design, or didn't ever completely get around to it. There were areas of the walls that hadn't faded with the rest, outlining where frames for photographs and paintings had been once. They were no longer there and Olivia couldn't help but wonder what they were of and why they were gone. Her fingers drifted over the wall, a small chip of blue paint flaking off and landing on the stair below. If only these walls could speak, Olivia thought to herself. They would have so much to say.

Olivia followed Agnes past the bedrooms.

"It's a dead end," Olivia murmured, looking to the blank wall in front of her.

"A dead end?" Agnes looked at the girl, tucking the figurine into her dress pocket. "What do you see?"

"A wall. What do you think I see?"

"I think you see a wall, too," Agnes chuckled gently.

"And what do you see?"

Agnes looked the wall over and shrugged slowly. Her wrinkled fingers traced the edge of a strip of flowered wallpaper, and peeled it carefully back from the blue wall with a crinkle. As Olivia regarded the wall, she could see no line of glue along that edge of the paper, or traces of it remaining on the wall. The edge that she had peeled back had never been glued down. Agnes's fingers then traced down to a small hole, then retreated to pull a cord up from under the collar of her dress and grasp a small metal rod around her neck. She lifted the cord from around her neck and looked it over, showing it briefly to Olivia. It was a quizzical sort of shape, and it had grooves and knobs on it very much like a key. Agnes, with a bit of trouble, fit it carefully into the hole and twisted it, lodging the rod in. She then pulled on the piece of metal sticking out from the small hole.

"I see," said Agnes with a smile, "a door."

With a creak, the wall opened, revealing a small doorway and a flight of stairs leading into what Olivia assumed to be an attic. The other side of the panel appeared to be a normal door, with a small handle on the outside edge. Agnes twisted the rod again and pulled it from the hole, replacing it around her neck butnot tucking it back into her dress.

"Shall we?"

"Well—Well, of course," Olivia replied, baffled by what she had just seen.

Agnes picked up her skirts to free her feet with one hand, the other hand grasping the unstable railing to the side of the stairs. "Can you make it up the stairs alright, Olivia, dear?"

"Yes, I can."

Olivia put her hand to the railing and stepped up on the first stairs, which groaned under her weight. She winced as she pulled herself up, all of the pressure on her clubfoot. Slowly, she made her way up the narrow, steep flight of stairs, and she knew that coming down would be an even more difficult task to accomplish. She hated stairs in general, but narrow, steep staircases were only one step away from the torturous spiraling ones that Olivia had only heard of. The railing was no help to her, as it seemed that it would fall off of its brackets on the wall.

Agnes waited patiently for her at the top. She knew that she shouldn't disturb Olivia if she told Agnes she was alright with it. Olivia made it up several moments after her, and blinked at what she saw.

The only available space was a somewhat wide walkway from the stairs to the single window that peered out at the city, dusty and cracked. The ivy vines had almost grown entirely over the neglected glass-covered opening. The shelves were covered with unlabled and open boxes, filled over the brim with toys, clothing, cookware, and miscellaneous collectible memorabilia. Kites hung from the ceiling, as well as several models of cars, ships, and flying machines, suspended by thin strings. Mannequins, dressed only in cobwebs, stood lifeless in the back corner, keeping silent vigil over the practically abandoned area with their drawn-in eyes under mousehair lashes. Olivia looked around in wonder at the peculiar room as Agnes pulled one of the boxes from the corner with a strengh Olivia didn't believe the woman possessed.

"Come, come, dear," Agnes said as she knelt down, skirts whispering their annoyance of being crumpled on the layer of dust that covered the floor. Olivia complied and sank down on the other end of the box, lacking the grace that Agnes had. She tucked her hair behind her ears and watched the old woman as she rummaged through the open box.

It was full of photographs, every one still in their frames. They had to have been the photos that once lined the walls of the house, taken down for a reason Olivia did not know of. When Agnes found a frame and photo that suited her, she lifted it from the box and traced her fingers over it, not allowing Olivia to look at it as she held it to her bosom.

"Olivia," Agnes began, her fingers continuing to dance lightly over the frame. "This is . . . not going to be easy for me since I have not spoken of them since 1876."

"Of who?"

"When I was eighteen—yes, eighteen; I know that's hard to believe—I married William Dover. This was in 1854, before the war, you see. We lived right here, in this house, since the first day we were married. In 1861, we had a daughter. That was shortly before William went to war."

Agnes looked down and Olivia could only assume what happened to William.

"Her name was Millie. That was her nickname, Millie. It's been so long since I've heard her real name I've near forgotten what it is. It was in 1876 when she died of a fever. It was in March. The nineteeth, actually. She'd been sick for quite a while. She was fifteen years old at the time . . ."

Olivia frowned with concern. Agnes's voice was choked, creaking through the words, the tone slipping through the cracks of the usually vibrant sound and making it uneven. Her sentences were simple, clipped, to force back oncoming tears. She didn't want any unwanted emotions coming forward in front of her young guest if she could avoid it.

"I—I'm sorry," was all Olivia could say, placing her hand gently over Agnes's bony, ring-studded fingers that were lovingly carressing the picture frame.

Agnes gently pushed Olivia's hand away as she cleared her throat. "No, no. Here, look."

Slowly, she turned around the picture frame, revealing the sienna-toned photograph of a young woman with dark, expressive eyes. Her hair was also dark, thick and tied in a ponytail over her shoulder with a white bow. Olivia gasped at the sight of a face that mirrored her own. The same simple, yet oddly elegant features, and Olivia was sure if the photo was full length, she would find the deformed leg, as well. Her brow furrowed as she looked to Agnes, opening her mouth to speak.

"This is my daughter, Millie," Agnes said softly as she pulled the glass figurine from her pocket and held it in her palm beside the photos. "She does look like you, doesn't she."

"She's even clubfooted."

"Oh . . . Oh, no, she wasn't clubfooted. She did break her kneecap once, falling down the stairs. She was on crutches for some time. But no, she wasn't clubfooted." Agnes examined the figure. "I made this shortly after she died. My hands were shaking so badly by the end of sculpting it that the leg became misshapen, and I didn't notice it until after it was done."

Olivia let out an exhale of quiet relief at that. She was glad to know that Millie wasn't exactly like her. But still, the resemblance was uncanny.

Agnes went on, touching the porcelain girl's leg. "I must have known all of those years ago that you would be coming," she murmured with a quiet chuckle. "Better make sure that you feel welcome."

"Oh, I do, but—" Olivia looked back to the picture frame. "Is this why you took me in? Because I look like your daughter?"

Agnes watched her, and spoke in her unclear, roundabout manner. "Do you think that's why I took you in?"

"I don't know what to think now. At first, I just thought you wanted to help me because I was on my own and couldn't go back to the orphanage. But now I'm simply wondering if you had other reasons for bringing me here."

"I'm letting you stay here because you don't have anywhere else to go, and because I trust you. And I trust you because you look and speak just like my daughter. If you didn't, I wouldn't have been so quick to bring you here," was the old woman's reply as she set the photo back into the box and handed Olivia the figurine, closing the girl's hand around it.

With a loud rustle of her skirts, Agnes stood and went to the stairs, turning back to Olivia, her brightly painted features appearing almost clown-like, but somehow sad. She was merely a whisper of the gentlewoman she must have been once, when her family had been alive. Olivia felt a twinge of pity for Agnes, though she knew that wasn't at all what the woman wanted.

"Olivia."

"Yes?"

"You may stay here, as long as you like."

"In the attic?"

"In this house," Agnes said with a smile. Then she laughed, her features lighting up once again. "And in the attic, too, of course. Wherever you like. Remember, you are my guest. You've only been here one bloody day and you're already figuring me out. No one has done that before."

Olivia smiled, her eyes twinkling, and Agnes drifted down the creaking stairs with her skirts that spoke volumes. She could hear the whispers of the muslin and petticoats down the hallway and stairs to the main floor.

Picking up the photo frame once again, Olivia examined it. Millie looked like her. Olivia could see her own reflection in the glass over the photograph, and the two images became one.

"Welcome home," Olivia murmured to herself.

Olivia spent the rest of the afternoon in the attic, looking through the photographs and exploring the wonders of the attic. Agnes had graciously offered her permission to do so, and Olivia went about exploring the attic and cleaning up the thick accumulations of dust and cobwebs that had resided there.

The tiny figurine of Millie sat comfortably on the small window sill, watching Olivia as she looked through Agnes's vast collection of knicknacks and oddities that she had gathered over the years. Peculiar gadgets and useless collectibles, not even out to be looked at, had been taken out of their boxes, dusted off, and carefully examined by Olivia's observant eye. For the life of her, Olivia wasn't able to identify half of the bizarre things in the attic.

It was still August, and the attic was incredibly warm. Olivia, stifled, set down something akin to an eggbeater and stood up, going to the window. Her hands painstakingly slid open the rusting lock and she pushed the window outward. At first, it didn't move, much to Olivia's frustration. The ivy vines were determined to hold the window in place. She pushed harder, ramming her shoulder into the wood frame that held the glass with just enough force to dislodge it. The ivy snapped and the window opened, a breeze coming in and circulating the musty air.

Olivia reached around the window, leaning forward, in order to clear the dust, dirt, and ivy off of the outside of the window, when she felt a small amount of pressure on her stomach that quickly disappeared.

The figurine!

Olivia reached down as fast as she could to try and catch it, but let out a desperate gasp as they grabbed nothing but hot summer air. She waited to hear the quiet crack of porcelain against stone steps, but it didn't come. Instead:

"Hey! Hey, you!"

A girl stood just near the steps of Agnes's front door, looking up at Olivia. Her eyes squinted in the sunlight from behind a pair of thick, rectangular glasses that slipped down her freckled nose. The figurine of Millie was cupped in her hands, and her lips were pursed as if she was in deep thought about something. Olivia didn't think that she was much younger than herself. She was dressed in an oversized gray shirt that was hastily tucked into her brown pants, the sleeves rolled up to just below her elbows.

"Did you drop dis?" shouted the girl. Her voice was elastic and breathy; not as smooth as Olivia's but with a calming quality to it that surpassed Olivia's own. It was thin, reedy, but melodic and playful.

Olivia looked down at her. "Yes, it is."

"Den what're you doin' droppin' it?"

"I didn't mean to," Olivia replied, almost defensively.

The girl laughed, one hand tugging at her short, almost boyish hair, cropped unevenly. It was a sunny, light blonde, though not as light as Whistle's had been. She scrunched her nose and pursed her lips tighter as she pushed her glasses back up to where they should have been. "What are ya doin' here, anyway?"

Olivia arched her brows a little, the light breeze blowing a few strands of her dark hair into her face, getting caught in her eyelashes and the moistness of her lips. With a quick gesture, she brushed them away. "I live here."

"Live heah? Since when?"

"Since yesterday."

The girl laughed, speaking cheerfully. "So dat's why I ain' seen you! I was startin' to think you was some kind of burgular 'r somethin', but that'd be silly 'cause it's in the middle o' da day. Widow Dover took you in, huh? Dat's awful nice of 'er. I come heahs every week to run errands for 'er since there're sometimes she don' leave da house 'cause of what people say 'bout 'er. But I t'ink dat if she don' leave da house it's only gonna start more rumours. But, hey, whateva she wants. I ain' gonna mix meself up in 'er affairs, 'cept when I come ta run errands. She lets me play with the cats an' gives me tea and cookies 'cause she's such a dear woman. Don' you t'ink?"

Olivia blinked. She certainly wasn't used to the girl's fast-paced and heavily accented way of talking, and when the question was proposed it suprised her that the stream of words had suddenly stopped. The girl was looking up at her expectantly and Olivia gave a hint of a nod. "Ah . . . yes."

"I'se gonna come inside now, an' I'll dee-livah dis little glass t'ing ta you when I gits in. An' don worry," added the girl with a secretive smile. "I won' let Miz Dover know you dropped it."

"T-Thank you," replied Olivia. The girl disappeared from her view as she went up the steps to knock on the door. Olivia closed the window and limped down the groaning stairs with some amount of difficulty and closed the hidden door. By the time she got down the pain staircase and to the main floor, the girl was with Agnes in the kitchen, the cats mewing and swarming their feet. Another pot of tea had been made, as well as a small plate of cookies, which lay in the center of the table. The girl had taken one and was munching on it happily.

"Ah! Olivia, dear," Agnes said with a smile as she poured three cups of tea. "I didn't think you would come down for days! Come, come, and have a seat."

Olivia, still somewhat wary, limped to the table and sat down. The girl watched Olivia's leg for a few moments before looking back to her face, not saying anything about it. Instead, she smiled genuinely and took a sip of tea to wash down the cookie.

"Olivia, this is Gwen Minton," Agnes said as she sat down with a familiar rustle. "Gwenny, this is Olivia."

"Mhm—" Gwenny managed as she swallowed to indicate she would speak as soon as her mouth wasn't full. "It's soitenly a pleasha ta meet you, Olivia."

"Well, I . . . It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Gwen," Olivia said, circling her hands around the small china teacup. Nothing in the teaset matched, and each piece was unique from each other. It was as mismatched as the house itself.

"Agnes makes the best cookies, Olivia," Gwen half-mumbled through a mouth full of cookie. "You make the best cookies, Agnes."

Agnes laughed and offered the plate to Olivia, who took one delicately. "Oh, I'm sure that I just make the best cookies you've ever tasted, Gwen."

"I've never had a cookie before," Olivia said as she looked it over. It was warm and soft, and the smell of them filled the entire house, intoxicating her.

Gwen looked positively shocked, her gray-blue eyes widening. "You've *neva* had a cookie? Criminy, Livvie, where're *you* from?"

"An orphanage," Olivia replied quietly as she took a sip of tea.

"You'se an orphan? I'se sorry."

"I'm going to find my family, someday."

"Dat's good," Gwen said. "An' it's good you didn't end up in da streets. Dat's awful. An' I heah dem orphanages are awful nice. Well kept an' awl."

"Not this one," mumbled Olivia. Before Gwen and Agnes could respond to Olivia's reaction, they saw the tears well in her eyes as she stood. The vicious words of Mrs. Opperheim, the painful blows from Meyer, the feel of his hand upon her breasts; the memories which she had tried so hard to force out of her mind in the past two days came flooding back, blinding her from seeing what was really in front of her with a curtain of painful images. She was still bruised, and they ached more that she thought of her life in the orphanage. With a gasp and a choked, "Excuse me," Olivia hurried out and up the stairs, nearly falling several times because of her limp.

Sobbing, Olivia collapsed onto her bed. Despite its down mattress and blankets, she found no comfort in its soft embrace. Her head throbbed and her hand tightly grasped the thick material under her, knuckles white. She clenched her eyes shut to block the tears, but only saw more of Meyer and his terrible hands. She forced her eyes open and recoiled back into the headboard, shocked to see the inquisitive and concerned features of Gwen Minton there, sitting on the edge of the bed with a handful of cookies. Her glasses slipped down her freckled nose considerably, though she made no move to push them back up.

"Are you alright? I'se sorry . . . I don' know what I said, but I didn' mean t'upset you."

"No . . . No, you didn't know," Olivia mumbled as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, her tears subsiding slowly. "You didn't know, it's alright. I just . . . do not have fond memories of where I used to live. It wasn't at all what an orphanage should be. The Children's Aid Society apparently does not know about it."

"Gosh," murmured Gwen, reaching out to gently touch Olivia's shoulder. "Den I won't tawk about it, alright? Here . . . A cookie oughta cheer you up. Espeshly if you'se neva had one in yer life, which I found hard ta believe before. But if you was as miserable as you say you was, den it musta been 'cause you didn't have cookies."

Olivia timidly took Gwen's offer, accepting the cookie graciously. She looked it over, gingerly nibbling. Never had she tasted anything so marvelous! She continued her tiny bites, as if she didn't want the cookie to ever be eaten completely. She held the cookie in both hands and nibbled with mouselike bites that delighted Gwen immensely. She giggled and ate her own cookie as she watched.

"I told you Miz Agnes makes da best cookies," Gwen said, laughing. "But 'cause you ain't had cookies before I t'ink you'se're gonna be spoiled when you wanna try anyone else's."

Between her bites, Olivia looked up at Gwen. "Thank you. And I have to thank Agnes. This is the most wonderful thing I've ever tasted in my life."

"Well, it ain't da last one yer eva gonna have," Gwen said. "There're plenny of 'em so you don' have ta eat 'em like that."

"Oh, I like to," Olivia said, looking over the cookie plaintively. "For I fear that if I eat it any other way it may not be so delicious."

Gwen's thin lips twitched into a smile, her glasses sliding down her nose. As she adjusted her glasses with one finger, her tongue snaked out to lick the crumbs from her lips. "If you say so, Livvie."

"Mhm. I do say so," Olivia said with a pleasant smile as she lowered the cookie from her mouth to lightly suck the excess crumbs from her fingers—a very unladylike action that was somehow made delicate and refined by Olivia's manner of doing so.

"I come every week, you know," Gwen said with a sort of anxiousness after a period of silence which wasn't at all uncomfortable. "To see Miz Agnes."

"Mhm-hmm?"

"Are you going to be staying here a long time?" Gwen shifted and set the cookies in her lap, rolling her sleeves up again with long, slim fingers.

"Agnes says that I can stay here as long as I like. And I really don't have anywhere else to go. Not that I know of, at least."

"Oh, well, you know . . . that's good, because I was thinkin' dat, maybe, we could be friends, you an' me."

"What's that?"

"You mean, you don' know what a 'friend' is?"

"No, no," Olivia explained. "I mean, is that it? Do we just . . . say we're friends and we become friends? Does it really work that way? Because I have friends but we never said, 'Let's be friends.' It sounds strange to me."

Gwen scratched the back of her neck. "Do it? Well . . . dat's how I do it. So is we, or is we ain't gonna be friends? 'Cause I can tell dat we'd be great friends, right quick like dat. Afta awl, you like Agnes, I like Agnes. You like cookies, I like cookies. Good enough for the start of a friendship, ain' it?"

Olivia laughed gently as she finished her cookie. "Well, yes, I suppose so."

"So . . . ?"

"So," Olivia repeated, "yes. Let's be friends."

Gwen lay on her back in the middle of the floor in the middle of the attic, staring up at the complex models and kites hanging from the ceiling. Her legs bent upwards sharply, a thick book, open and marked, resting on her knees. One hand rested comfortably on her stomach, rising and falling with her breaths. The other cradled the back of her head, fingers trailing through her shortly cropped blonde hair. Olivia leaned against the windowsill, the warm breeze coming in to bristle through her hair.

"This attic's fascinatin'," Gwen murmured, tilting her head back to look at Olivia. "Do you spend a lotta time up here?"

"Everything in this house is fascinating," Olivia said as she fingered the small metal rod that hung around her neck. It was identical to Agnes's; the woman had given her one so Olivia could come and go from the attic as she pleased. "Do you know why she makes the figurines?"

"I really don' know," Gwen replied plaintively as she slid her feet forward, lowering the book, which she closed and set on the floor as she stood. There was a dark spot where she had been lying, the dust having been pulled from the floor and transfered to Gwen's back. "Miz Agnes says it's because she gets bored and lonely."

Olivia furrowed her brow, uncrossing her legs and straightening, limping to one of the shelves. Her fingers brushed over it, a dusty film clinging to her skin. "She's a wonderful woman. Why should she be lonely?"

"People t'ink she's crazy."

"What? Why?"

"Well, 'cause she lives awl alone. And she's lived awl alone for almost thoity yea's, since her daughter and husband died. Her husband died in the war—in tha war, that was forty yea's ago. An' she didn' remarry. She was only twenny-somethin' when 'e died. An' if dat happens, you remarry . . . I mean . . . dat's just how it's done. Dey t'ink she's crazy 'cause she never wore black when in mourning, an' she wears funny makeup an' she only goes out fer 'er five o'clock walks, like she is now, an' to buy ceramic for her figgers an' tuna an' cream for the cats . . . Usually I get 'er groceries. Sometimes, if she's up to it, she does it."

Olivia blinked. "Well, that doesn't make her crazy, does it?"

"No, no. Not at all. But ya know how people tawk."

"Yes . . . I know."

Gwen arched her brows and gave a tight-lipped smile. "Yeah, me too," she said as her attention was drawn to the mannequins, her feet drifting in their direction. She gingerly touched the wooden body. The mannequin gave no protest, its fake eyes staring blankly at the wall, expressionless. Gwen crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue at the lifeless figure, taking the fur wrap from around its shoulders and pulling it around her own. As she stroked the soft pelt, dust flew up from the fibers, causing her to cough.

Olivia watched her with a laugh as Gwen pulled on a wide-brimmed hat and started prancing about, awkward with her long limbs, her lips pursed and her brows arched. Her arms were outstreched, one forward and one back, snaking about in an "S" shape. She delibrately traced lines in the dust as she dragged her toes along the floor with her steps, nodding to the mannequins with, "Oh, good morning. Oh, good day. Hello, dear. My, my, you look lovely."

Olivia giggled, covering her mouth, and shook her head. Over the past few weeks, she had learned that Gwen was possibly crazier than people thought Miss Agnes was, and it was quite an attractive quality in the freckled blonde girl. She was prone to funny voices and bizarre expressions, always causing Olivia to burst into laughter.

Gwen raced up to her, planting an equally flamboyant hat over Olivia's dark tresses.

"Quite fashion-ible, if I do say so meself," Gwen giggled, tugging a feathered boa around her companion's neck, poorly attached feathers flying about the room as she did so. Olivia laughed as Gwen hopped off to continue her prancing. With a slightly more timid stance, Olivia imitated her walk, twirling the end of the boa in her hand. She limped, but she somehow made it bizarrely graceful, were it not for her ridiculous accessories.

Gwen went back over to the mannequins to find more amusing articles of clothing, while Olivia's eyes scanned the room mischeviously. Never had she felt so . . . childish. She never thought she was able to act strange and be the child that she was, until now. Her hand grabbed a dusty pillow from one of the boxes.

"Hey!" Gwen shouted with a laugh as she pillow hit her square in the back, a cloud of dust exploding and causing them both to cough. Gwen reached down to grab the pillow, laughing, and raised it high in the air, racing toward her in the small space. "Just ya wait, Livvie!"

Olivia gave out a yelp of surprise as the pillow slammed into her shoulder with a dull thud, and she grabbed another from the box, nailing Gwen in the side. The pillows split open at the seams, feathers spewing forth and softly floating down around the madly battling girls.

"Ah—! No!" Olivia shrieked, laughing, as she backed away in the direction of the stairs. Gwen, panting, tossed her pillow down with resignation, holding up her hands in surrender. But then a slow smirk crossed her features, her eyes glittering. With a wild battle cry, she grabbed an even larger pillow from the box and charged Olivia.

And Olivia lost her footing, slipping on the edge of the top stair. Two screams echoed distinctively through the house as the pair tumbled down the stairs, every so often the pillows, and one another, keeping them from hitting the stairs. Olivia's hand darted out to grab the railing, but it met only with a piece of poorly glued wallpaper that ripped from the wall at the strain. They hit the floor with a thud, leaving a trail of feathers in their wake.

The sudden silence that ensued after the crash was broken by a groan from Gwen as she sat up, rubbing her shoulder. She helped to pull Olivia up, dusting her off. Olivia looked positively dazed, her legs twisted in a painful position under her, and she shifted to get more comfortable, her eyes meeting Gwen's. A smirk spread over Gwen's face, and Olivia's started to mirror it. They both grinned, and simultaneously burst into laughter, despite their aching bodies.

Their laughter subsided into giggles, and their giggles subsided into smiles, Gwen's eyes glittering with tears from laughing so hard. Olivia looked down at the piece of wallpaper in her hand, and then up the stairs with a quiet chuckle, then furrowed her brow as she saw the bare wall that had been uncovered.

Olivia pulled herself up, pulling the key from around her neck, limping back up the stairs. Gwen arched her brows and got up, stumbling a little and giggling, but Olivia shushed her. The missing wallpaper revealed a smaller door, much like the one that led into the attic. Olivia blinked a little, comparing her key to the hole in the wall.

Gwen, perplexed, followed her up. "Heyyy—" she said, her mouth forming an "O" shape as she looked at the hidden panel. "It's another one of those—"

"Shh," Olivia said, slightly more hash than she meant to. She bit her lip and pushed the key into the hole. It slid in perfectly, and clicked as she locked it into place, pulling the panel open.

It was a small cupboard hidden in the wall, home mostly to layers of dust and thick cobwebs. A box, forgotten over what seemed like several years, lay abandoned and alone. It was painted with a flowered pattern, though it was beginning to chip from years of neglect. There was a small metal frame attached to it, where a labeled card would be slipped in. But it was empty, leaving the girls to wonder at its contents.

"Open it," Gwen murmured.

Olivia didn't feel entirely right doing so, but she assumed that if Agnes had abandoned it for long, she wouldn't have minded. Her fingers reached out to gently touch the crumbling flower pattern as she lifted the lid from the box and peered in.

The box was filled with letters.

15 June 1861

My dearest Agnes,

I write to you now approximately one mile away from Alexandria, Virginia, with the Massachusetts Fifth (not my regiment, of course). I heard once that Alexandria, as of late, had been the most thriving city in Virginia. And yet as I see its present state I cannot believe such was ever true. Never have I seen a place so gloomy and desolate. There are times when I wish I was dying, so I might be returned to you, and to Millie. Grass is growing in the streets, stalks of corn beginning to shoot up on the wharves (I do know that sounds strange, yes). The windows and doors of dwelling-houses have been shut, wholesale stores closed. It is a depressing sight indeed, to see such a city nearly completely abandoned. And it's hard to believe I'm supposed to be happy about it.

But such things are of little consequence. I am well, and in good health. Our regiment is well-commanded and I've found comrades amongst the other men. I should like to see you, and our daughter (do be sure you read this to her).

The seventeenth is the anniversary of Bunker Hill. Though we (the men and myself, of course) are not on home soil, we are still looking forward to this day. It's surely to be a celebration to revive our spirits and rejuvenate our souls. The war seems far from over, and it is no time to be weary.

From your last letter, I conclude that Millie is well. Tell me, has she spoken yet? I do hope so, and yet, I don't, for I should like to be there when it happens. My duty as a patriot and a righteous citizen of the United States, however, seems to precede my duties as husband and father (much to my dismay). I do wish that I could be home. If there is any chance, I will be there, I assure you.

Your loving husband,
William.

Postscript.: Do not stop writing, it's all I have.

Regards,
Adeline Newell.

The brittle papers were scattered over the attic floor, spread out around Olivia and Gwen. Aside from the letters were official Civil War documents, including William's death notice, smudged by tears that had fallen forty years before. It also contained numerous letters of an earlier date, proclaiming quite broadly William's love for Agnes. Millie's birth, and death, certificates were also inside. However, William's journal and other possessions mentioned by Adeline Newell were nowhere in sight.

Gwen's brow furrowed. "Dat's terrible, what 'appened to 'im. But the letters keep on gettin' shorter. It's like he stopped carin'."

Olivia glanced at Gwen for a moment before comparing the lengths of each letter. "It was leading up to his death. Maybe he didn't have the time to write letters anymore."

"Not 'ave time t'write letters to 'is own wife? Dat don' sound normal to me."

"Have you ever been in a war, Gwen?"

Gwen pursed her lips. "No."

"Then you wouldn't know. I'm not saying you're wrong, but I don't think he'd . . . stop caring. If he stopped caring, I think he'd stop writing altogether, don't you think?"

"I dunno," was Gwen's reply as she began to tuck the papers back into the box. "It ain' our business, anyhow. I bet Agnes don' want us lookin' through dese letters. Dat's why she has 'em hidden. Livvie, I t'ink it's great an' all dat you wanna know more about Agnes, but I t'ink we should . . . ask 'er or somethin' first."

"I have to know more about William," Olivia murmured as she closed the box once Gwen had put everything in.

"You don't have to know anything, Livvie."

"That's what you think."

Gwen pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with her index finger, watching Olivia as she carefully placed the box back into the compartment behind the panel in the wall and closed it, taking the key back and hanging it around her neck. She glanced at the piece of wallpaper that she had accidentally ripped off, and frowned. Agnes was going to find out they went through her belongings. Olivia couldn't put the wallpaper back on. With a despondent sigh, she set the scrap of flowered paper on the floor and cautiously made her way down the stairs, followed by Gwen.

"You'se an orphin, right, Livvie?"

"Yes, I am," Olivia replied slowly. "What of it?"

"Do you know what 'appened t'your parents?" Gwen tilted her head to the side, curious.

Olivia glanced down the stairwell to the main floor before her eyes returned to Gwen's lanky figure and mismatched clothes. "No. I don't. When I was little, I made up a story about who they were. A ridiculous story. It didn't make any sense at all. My friend Letty had taught me to write and said I had a gift for it. So about two months ago I began writing it down on paper. Silly, really."

"Well, what was it?" Gwen asked, interested. She sat down on the top stair, squinting up at Olivia as if there was bright sunlight in her eyes.

"That my name was Mireille Roufoide. My parents lived on the French countryside. A young couple, Guillaume and Marianne. My mother died in childbirth—but not because giving birth to me was too painful for her. She was murdered."

"By who?"

"By a jealous lover. Renouart d'Enneris. He loved Marianne, and was originally to be her husband before she met with Guillaume and fell in love with him instead. Because I was clubfooted, he thought I was some sort of demon, and he tried to get her away from me, but she was too weak. He shook her to death."

"An' what about yer father?"

"He was killed by d'Enneris as well. In a duel. And so, I was orphaned, and left alone in the world. D'Enneris sold me to gypsies who came to America. But the woman caring for me was killed, and I was brought to the orphanage. Ridiculous, isn't it?"

Gwen scrunched her nose. "Yeah, it is ridi-cull-ous. But you were little. An' I guess if yer little an' you tell yerself somethin's true long enough, you believe it. But I dunno much about that sort of thing."

"The woman who runs the orphanage says that my mother was a faceless, nameless prostitute and my father was a drunk. I can't believe that. Even if my parents aren't the Roufoides, they're not . . . nobodies. They can't be. I have to find them. Or their graves."

"Did you eva finish da story you was writin' about yer parents?"

"No, it was futile. It wasn't true, and Mrs. Opperheim had taken the manuscript away, so I would have had to rewrite it all. And . . . some things happened that didn't allow me to continue at that time. I should have liked to finish it, but I'm trying to force the lie out of my head and devote myself to finding out who my real parents are."

"Wull, good luck, 'cause it ain't gonna be easy," Gwen said, scratching the back of her neck. "If I can, I'll help ya."

Olivia smiled. "Thank you," she replied softly. "Thank you, Gwen."

Gwen clicked her tongue against her teeth as she nimbly stood up again and brushed the dust from her clothes. "Agnes should be home soon. An' I should be, too. Don' want anyone gettin' worried," she grinned, adjusting her glasses. "Hey, listen. Livvie. I hope ya find yer parents. I bet they were—or are—some real nice folks. Bet dey got along an' awl."

"Gwen? What about your parents?"

The girl's blonde eyebrows knitted together and she pursed her lips again, a common habit when she was thinking of what to say. "They didn' get along."

"Didn't?" Olivia asked slowly, leaning back against the wall. "Are you an orphan, too?"

"Not last time I checked," was Gwen's rather cryptic reply, ruffling her short blonde tresses. "I gotta go, though."

"Oh, don't let me keep you. I'd hate for you to get in trouble."

Gwen chuckled as she started down the stairs, her fingers trailing down the wall, bits of paint crumbling off at her touch. She stopped halfway down, turning around. "I expect ya ta have found somefin when I come back next week," she said, mockingly stern. "Alright?"

"Alright," Olivia replied, laughing gently as she watched Gwen march down the stairs. Several seconds later she heard the door close behind her exiting companion. Olivia shook her head and couldn't help but smile widely. She made her way down the stairs, glancing to the clock in the foyer. Six-thirty. Agnes would be back at precisely six-forty-seven. That's what happened every day. Olivia wasn't sure how Agnes had timed it, but it was fascinating. Agnes had told Olivia that seven o'clock was usually when she fed the cats, but with Olivia there, it was the guest's job to feed the five cats at six-thirty. Olivia went into the kitchen, getting tuna and milk for the cats as she hummed quietly, contemplating the letters in the attic.

The cats heard the milk sloshing around in the bowl as Olivia set it down, as well as the plate of tuna, on the floor somewhat awkwardly. They swarmed her legs, mewing and rubbing against them, and then pushed at each other to get the optimal place to eat. Olivia sat down by the cats, her fingers reaching out to pet one of them every so often.

Nickerson, the elderly gray tabby, sat off to the side, her front paws crossed daintily. She was certainly above the childish antics of the younger cats, and would wait her turn. Olivia clicked her tongue and held her hand out to Nickerson, who slowly made her way over, nudging Olivia's fingers with her tan nose. Nickerson's ears were gently scratched, and she purred loudly, tilting her head up in offering for Olivia to scratch her chin. Olivia fondly complied. No wonder Agnes loved Nickerson so much. Olivia gently picked up Nickerson, surprised at how light she was. Agnes had said that the cat was over fifteen years old, and yet Nickerson was hardly feeble or slow in her old age. Her movements were never hasty, but her reflexes were quick.

Nickerson's gray eyes watched Serena, the smaller one who resembled herself quite a bit, except for the vast amount of white colouring. Serena was the smallest cat, only a year or so, and had a bright and quirky attitude about her that usually got her into trouble. Nickerson was very protective of the little adolescent tabby. Olivia had been told by Agnes that Serena was Nickerson's only surviving kitten, and such a bond was quite evident in the way Nickerson watched over her.

Olivia longed for that same sort of watchfulness from a mother. She hadn't ever been held under an overprotective wing. She had never been held in a mother's strong and loving embrace, her head resting against the bosom that had first fed her. She wanted it more than anything, yet was unable to attain it. Her mother was dead, and there was no way Olivia would ever be held by her again.

She had to find her.

Olivia's mind was set on it. She had to find her mother and father and at least knew who they once were. Now that the story of the Roufoides was a distant memory, there was a hole in her heart, that had once been temporarily filled, empty again. She was incomplete now. A piece of her history, a piece of herself, was missing as long as the identity of her parents remained an enigma.

Letty had told her it didn't matter, as long as she believed what she wanted to believe, and as long as it shaped who she was as a person. But Olivia knew that she had been lying to herself and to others about Marianne and Guillaume, and she wanted the truth. She needed the truth. The daguerreotype of Millie had made her suspicious that maybe she was meant to come to Agnes; perhaps there was, indeed, some sort of connection between the girl in the photograph and herself. The similarity was too frighteningly similar to be irrelevant. Olivia had to find out what that connection was.

But she didn't know how.