Olivia: William's Journal

by Quill Swipple

"Agnes?"

"Mhm?"

"Who's Adeline Newell?"

Agnes fell quiet and looked at Olivia as she set down her teaspoon on her napkin. A single white curl fell into her face, catching on her darkened eyelashes as she blinked slowly. She blotted her painted lips against each other pensively, her eyes not leaving Olivia. "Who told you about Adeline?"

Olivia shifted, somewhat uncomfortably. Her hands gripped the sides of her chair and she crossed her ankles, biting her lip. "Gwen and I were playing in the attic," she began. "And we both fell down the stairs. I reached out to catch something and the wallpaper ripped and we found another panel. I unlocked it and we found a box of letters."

Agnes nodded, waiting for Olivia to continue.

"And . . ." Olivia did continue, her voice cracking. She sped up the rest of her response, thinking it would be best just to get it out. "And we read the letters that were in there from William and Adeline and we shouldn't have and I'm sorry."

The apology hung in the air like thick smoke in a seedy Western saloon as silence ensued. Agnes arched her brows and gave a lopsided nod, picking up her spoon again to stir at her coffee. Olivia's eyes darted from the doorway to the woman in front of her as she waited for an answer, a word of forgiveness. Any sort of response would have been better than the silence that Agnes proceeded to give her.

As soon as Olivia opened her mouth to speak, Agnes did it for her.

"Why did you look through the letters, Olivia?"

"Curiosity," Olivia said slowly. "I started reading and I felt like I couldn't stop. They intrigued me so."

Agnes went about stirring her tea again, her gnarled fingers wrapped gracefully around her spoon as she furrowed her brow. "Intrigued you . . . That's . . ."

"I'm so sorry, Agnes. I didn't know it was that important to keep them secret."

"Secret?" Agnes said with the faintest bit of a laugh. "No, it's not a secret. That's nothing. It's nothing. Just several papers that are important to me. It's not a secret. Feel free to look those papers over any time you like. I'm just . . . surprised you found them, I suppose."

Olivia nodded, gathering tea in the well of her spoon and sipping at it. She watched Agnes carefully. "I see. Thank you, for not being angry. It . . . It was wrong of me to intrude."

Agnes's head bobbed up and down lightly in rhythm to Olivia's words, and the pattern then repeated as Agnes ran them through her head again once Olivia had finished speaking. "You are interested in who Adeline Newell is?"

"Quite," Olivia murmured. "I know she knew your husband before he died, otherwise she wouldn't have sent the letter. I suppose she's one of the women he talked about in his letters to you—"

"She's no one," was Agnes's reply. It was startlingly cold and short to the point that Agnes visibly flinched, shocked at her own tone of voice.

"Agnes—" Olivia murmured as she stood halfway, reaching across the table to her.

Agnes shook her head, more curls falling from her upsweep and into her eyes. She stood vehemently, anger flashing across her features. The chair was shoved out from under her violently and hit the floor with a crash that caused the spectating cats to scatter. Agnes grabbed her skirts, pulling them up to clear her feet as she stormed out. Her petticoats whispered to Olivia in threats, the very winds of fury howling as Agnes stormed up the stairs and to her bedroom. The door slammed shut, and Olivia tensed, her shoulders scrunching up around her ears.

"My God," Olivia murmured as she set her teacup and spoon down, her brow furrowing. "What—What could I have said to her?"

Silence was her answer from the house, aside from the creak of the open window. The warm breeze of mid-autumn rustled the lace curtains, reaching out like they would wrap around Olivia's neck and choke her. Olivia, watching the curtains, rose without taking her eyes off of them. After Agnes's peculiar outburst, the most serene of actions appeared sinister. She warily backed away and limped her way toward the stairs, her hand tightly gripping the banister as she made her way up the first three stairs backwards, onto the landing.

Feeling a presence behind her, she spun around, only to see Agnes standing there, with a small box in her hands. Olivia gasped and jumped back into the wall, her breath catching in her throat.

Agnes soughed audibly and hung her head. "Olivia, I apologize."

"Your a-apology is accepted," Olivia answered carefully as she scrutinized the container Agnes held. "I apologize as well."

"Here, here." Agnes pressed the box into Olivia's hands, curling the girl's fingers over the cover, tightly wrapped in faded blue muslin. It appeared relatively old, and was excellently preserved. The name "William Dover" his regiment were written carefully on the corner. Olivia furrowed her brow as she noted a faint cigarette burn on the edge of the box's lid, and the smallest smudge of what looked like red ink or blood.

Olivia looked up to inquire as to what it was, but no sooner was her mouth open when Agnes answered.

"William's journal," she said softly.

"H-His journal?" Olivia blinked. "You want—"

Agnes looked away briefly. "I've never read it. I just thought . . . Perhaps it says something about Adeline."

"You don't know who she is?"

Agnes's expression turned sour and her hand wrapped around the bannister as she lowered herself down to sit on the stairs. Her skirts whispered, crying out as they always disliked being crushed. Her painted eyelids closed over the brilliant aquamarine orbs, her lip quivering. As Olivia watched the wrinkled, despondent figure on the stairs, how anyone could really think Agnes was insane baffled her. She was every bit a woman, with womanly emotions and a charmed grace, even when she cried. Olivia saw her as the only real *lady* left. And she saw it behind the makeup, behind the feathers and the whispering petticoats.

"Agnes?"

It was several moments before Agnes calmed and stopped trembling. Though her hands still shook, her blood red nails reflecting the light from the foyer windows, she looked back to Olivia. The black lines that had once encircled the edges of her lids had merged with the salt of bitter tears and drifted from their places, sliding over the wrinkled ridges of Agnes's cheeks, and caught in the tiny canyons of loose skin that bunched under her eyes.

"I don't know who Adeline Newell is."

Olivia watched Agnes quietly, her expression molded into genuine concern. She gently set down the box holding the journal, awkwardly knelt down, and took Agnes's hands, her thumbs tracing over the numerous rings that covered her caretaker's shaking fingers. Olivia glanced to the rings briefly, not able to meet Agnes's gaze. There was no wedding ring. Her frown deepened and she looked back to Agnes's face.

"But I can assume, Olivia. It . . . it isn't that difficult to understand what happened between Adeline and William."

"You mean—Agnes . . ."

"He was unfaithful to me while in the war, Olivia. With her." Agnes's usually sweet, kindly voice turned bitter and harsh, her eyes darting away to the side. White wisps of thin hair fell into her face, giving Olivia a glimpse of the carefree and rebellious woman she must have been once, torn apart by grief at the thought of her husband with another woman. In the dim light of the stairwell Agnes had the appearance of a fallen angel; elegant and poised once before grief and betrayal disillusioned her. The makeup plastered to her face to convince herself she was desirable, the liner smudged on her cheeks in reminder he had died in the presence of another woman whom he loved more deeply than he ever loved Agnes. She had carried the burden on her shoulders, never knowing whether or not such a thing was ever true.

"Now Agnes," Olivia said cautiously, forcing their gaze to meet. "You don't know that. You're assuming . . . You've thought that for forty years?"

Agnes nodded, pulling one hand from Olivia to come to her neck, clutching the brooch at her collar.

"Didn't you ever look into the journal to see if . . . if perhaps it could prove your assumption?"

"I . . . I didn't, no," she replied, flattening her palm over the shape of the cameo brooch, fingers caressing the lacy fabric which encased her neck.

"W-Why not?"

"Being sure it's true is harder than just thinking it is. There's a chance it may not have been anything other than a friendship. Oh, but Olivia. There's a possibility that it hadn't. And I don't want to take that chance."

"Wouldn't it be better to just . . . know?" Olivia frowned, her mind drifting to the subject of her parents. She knew the Roufoides never really existed. And now that she had realized that, all she wanted to do was know the truth, even if they weren't important or loving toward her while they were alive. She couldn't understand why Agnes wouldn't want to be sure. Knowing would put her worry to rest.

"No," Agnes said after a tangible silence. "It wouldn't. I don't want to read my husband's words of love for someone else, even if it would bring closure after forty years. I couldn't bear it. Maybe . . . if you read it, you could tell me."

Olivia bit down on her lip, nodding, and squeezed Agnes's hands, helping to pull her up. Agnes coughed, squeezing her eyes closed. She then masked it with a clearing of her throat as if it would keep Olivia from noticing. But she did notice, her brows knitting together to further deepen her expression of concern.

"I think you should rest," Olivia said gently.

Agnes shook her head. "No, dear. It's not even five o'clock yet. I have to go walking at five."

"Not if you aren't well." Olivia lightly took Agnes's arm and helped her up the stairs. Her other hand grabbed the banister to support herself. She could barely go up stairs on her own, let alone trying to help someone else. Agnes watched Olivia's attempt to be charitable with a fond smile, laughing hoarsely. Her gnarled fingers laced with Olivia's while the other picked up her skirts, heading up a few stairs ahead of her. She turned around and grabbed Olivia's other hand, tugging her up to the stair she was on. Olivia blinked, stumbling up to Agnes's level.

"You can't help me up the stairs if you can't get up yourself," Agnes said playfully. Olivia wasn't sure if Agnes's mood had really changed or if it was just as mask to hide her true feelings. But Olivia's thoughts were quickly erased as Agnes scooped her up into her arms and carried her up the rest of the stairs. Olivia blinked as she was lifted, shocked that a woman of Agnes's age could carry a thirteen-year-old girl.

Olivia stammered as she was set down at the top of the stairs, Agnes's warm arms pulled from around her. She stumbled forward a few inches before regaining her footing.

Agnes laughed softly, leaning back against the wall, her shoulders drooping. Her breathing was heavy with exertion. There was something in her eyes. Olivia couldn't place it but it wasn't grief from their preceding conversation. "Just because I'm old doesn't make me weak. And you aren't that heavy, dear."

Olivia shook her head, smiling. She glanced down the stairs before looking back to Agnes.

"I'm just surprised that you were able to do that—Agnes?"

Agnes slouched against the wall, closing her eyes. She coughed painfully, her hand clutching the fabric at her chest as if it were restricting her lungs. She was unusually pale, her blood drained from her features, and looked much, much older than she really was. Murmuring something incoherent, she slid down the wall to sit. Her knees cracked and her petticoats screamed in agony.

Olivia limped over and kneeled down beside Agnes, eyes widening. "Agnes?"

A cough was the response from Agnes. Olivia, trembling with worry, traced her fingertips over Agnes's shoulders. She lightly touched her. Agnes murmured and coughed again. The top of her head and snow-white hair pressed into Olivia's chest as Agnes doubled over. Olivia gasped, her mind racing. She grabbed Agnes's shoulders more forcefully, her knuckles white.

"Agnes!"

20 December 1861.

Two weeks ago I received a letter from my wife. I have not been diligent in replying. It is extremely difficult to reply to friendly letters when one is in a war, wouldn't you agree? It is nearly Christmas and I doubt that the letter will reach them before then. It is bad enough that I found myself unable to get them gifts. I have written the reply as of late and addressed it. Usually I am able to find the time, but now I find myself distracted and my thoughts quite scattered.

As of late, I have been introduced to the personage of a Miss Adeline Newell of Georgia. A woman of great beauty and mild manner, she is the first woman I have met here in the Confederate states whom is not hostile or hot-blooded about the war. In fact, she does confess to me that she is of neutral blood, if not for the righteous cause of the Union. Her brother is a Confederate soldier, naturally, living in Georgia. Such was also her husband, who was killed, I am told, only in May of this year. And his name was Theodore James. Adeline apparently returned to her maiden name after his death. Though it is a mere eight months since he died, I have yet to see Adeline wear black, or speak of him with teary eyes. She is quite the stony widow, with no desire for her husband to be alive. It makes me wonder sometimes how Agnes were to react were I to die.

But what a fair and beauteous woman Adeline is! Such dark and precious eyes that convey her emotions exactly, with lids that bear no wrinkles and lashes that are full, with plenty of them. And oh, what lips! Lips of such lush elegance and expressiveness I have not seen. She speaks with such exactness with a lilting accent native to Georgia, her lips forming each word with handsome perfection. To quote Shakespeare: "Diana's lip is not more smooth and rubious." And such is so of this Miss Adeline Newell. Were I not married I would long to touch such lips with my own. Her smile is infectious and kind, her teeth white and even. She has shown me such a smile many times in the short while in which I have known her.

It has been a great while since I have met a woman civil to me, and such is a great relief, for I had begun to think that all women would come to hate me at one point or another. My assumption that all Southern women are hostile was certainly incorrect, with the example of Miss Newell. I would say then that all Confederate women are hostile and heathenous. But Miss Newell by blood is Confederate, even though her personal views are separate from that of her family. To such a contradiction I can't be terribly sure how to react. All I do know is that she is a beautiful woman who has shown me great kindness, and for that I am grateful.

And yet my thoughts do stray. Since mild-mannered, gentle women are a precious commodity where I am (assumed so since I have not met one here other than Miss Newell), my mind does wander to thoughts which are less than pure. Agnes and Millie are my life, and yet my desires lie elsewhere. Though I would never consider Adeline Newell to be anything other than a companion who has treated me kindly, I do often think of her softly, in the back of my mind.

Every man has a weakness. Beauty and even tempers in women happen to be mine. Some like strong, hardy women. I care for the delicate. Agnes is neither of the two, plain with an uneven disposition. Adeline is delicate. Delicate in appearance and strong in character.

How might I express our first meeting? It was hardly a considerable "normal" intro-duction, and I don't believe I would think so highly of her if it were. One of the men in my regiment, McKennaugh, had been shot by a Confederate out of his regiment. No one could see the man who had shot McKennaugh. I finally caught sight of him—the barrel of his pistol aimed directly at my chest. I fumbled for my gun. Before I could, two shots rang out: One from his gun, and one from another direction. The bullet knicked me in the shoulder but didn't cut more than the sleeve of my uniform. And the man fell to the ground, blood bubbling from his lips.

From slightly to my left and about thirty feet ahead came the woman I came to know as Miss Newell, a smoking rifle in her arms. I was, suffice to say, shocked that a woman could have such aim. But before I could voice my thanks to her, she tended to McKennaugh's wounds and brought us to our home, giving us food and warm drinks to go around.

She lives alone in a small house, what with the war tearing apart the South. Her entire family is off at war, and she fends for herself. We have decided to stay in the area, at least until Christmas passes and the winter is tame. There are no orders as of now and what we really have to do is wait.

20 February 1962.

I am in love! And I shall be damned for eternity for ever being such in love! Oh, were I to wish it not so, and yet never have I been filled with such exquisite agony and ecstasy at the same moment! Miss Newell—Adeline—my dear Adeline, causes my heart to leap with joy at every chance I see her. She grows more beautiful by the day, and I long to confess to her my love. And yet I cannot. My marital bond to Agnes denies me such. Adeline does not know that I am married; I have not told her. And Agnes would not find out where I to love Adeline, if only for a moment. I ache for her. I ache for the touch of a woman at all. Oh, but Adeline's touch . . . how much more wonderful the thought of Adeline's touch is! She put her hand on mine today and I felt as if I would collapse. Such soft skin she has, such delicate fingertips. Dreams of her have filled my nights and I pray for forgiveness every day. My thoughts are . . . most impure to say the least, particularly since I am married—and yet, it seems that anything involving Adeline must be pure. I can't see why it would be a sin to think about the woman you love, who is so perfect in every way, when we soldiers go about killing people every day. And yet war is justified and desire is not? It's a perplexing thing that I don't try to understand.

I am hardly looking forward to responding to my wife's last letter. I am looking at it now, and Agnes's harsh and overly decorative hand. I can't help but wonder what Adeline's handwriting must look like. Could it be as beautiful as she? My mind continually does compare my wife to Adeline and I find myself torn between my wife and the woman who has lit a spark in my life that I couldn't have ever thought existed. I fear that if I set my pen to paper in a letter to my wife I will begin speaking of Adeline. And I also have lost my desire. Agnes stated in her letter that she and Millie were well, and I have nothing to report other than that I have found strong feelings toward Adeline Newell—which I dare not tell her (how ridiculous that would be!). I'm sure that eventually, I will find the desire or motivation to write to my wife again, though I'm not sure when that will be.

Things are going slow now for the regiment. We aren't moving as of late and I thank God every day for that, since the last thing I would want is to leave Adeline so soon, without her knowing how I feel. Aside from her beauty, I have fallen in love with her personality and the very kindness and compassion which saved my life. She is unusually strong in character and her state of mind; she speaks what she thinks and yet somehow never will offend. To me, she is a very angel on Earth, and I, the poor fool who dares to love her. She will surely reject me.

19 March 1862.

Life never ceases to amaze me. Could it be, that my dear Adeline has accepted my love and taken me as her own? Perhaps she is distraught as I, with her husband dead. But I have heard it said that a woman's desires aren't hardly as passionate as a man's. And yet, it seems that Adeline is in need as well. I question my own feelings: Is it really love, or merely lust for any woman, especially a beautiful woman, to satisfy the burning desire—no, need I feel for an intimate embrace? Am I only so enamoured by her because I have not seen my wife in almost a year?

If such is true, then why do the words, "I love you," come so naturally to my lips, as I speak them to a woman who is not my wife, and never will be my wife? I have never spoken those words to anyone but Agnes. And I didn't intend on speaking them to anyone else until I met Adeline.

I said those exact words to her today. I was holding her hands (such soft, gentle hands they are—her skin is milky and smooth). It was quiet, we had stolen a moment alone—oh, how uncomfortable those moments alone are, when you have something to say but don't know how—and I simply said it (after approxim-ately five minutes of stammering).

And, oh!, she smiled! The most beautiful smile I have ever seen! She blinked, and appeared shocked, but the smile crossed her lips and she pulled one hand from mine to touch my cheek (what a wonderful feeling that is) as she whispered the same words back.

"I love you."

The very angels of Heaven could have played their most elegant pieces on their harps, and yet nothing would be more melodious and beautiful and joyous than the sound of such words on Adeline's tongue! I resisted the urge to leap with elation at the response and pull her into the most passionate and longed-for kiss I had ever desired. But to my surprise, she kissed me.

My God, what a feeling! Perhaps it was that I had not kissed a woman in over a year and was unable to bear another second once her lips were upon mine. Agnes's lips had always been tight and thin, and she kissed with a hesitance that almost was insulting. It was all I had ever known. Oh, but Adeline! Adeline's kisses were what I knew a kiss should be. Her soft, full lips pressed insistently against mine, in a sweet kiss that tasted of the finest elderberry wine. This close to her I could inhale her scent—she smelled of fine magnolias and citrus.

The kiss was chaste, and all too brief. Her creamy hand rested against the side of my neck and I thought I would collapse. A smile crossed her lips again—those lips that had touched mine, and I felt compelled to kiss her again. I did so. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her in, unable to feel the soft flesh of her waist through the corset which tightened her bodice. Her breathing was ragged and uneven, causing her breasts to press against my chest. They felt so much fuller compared to Agnes's. Everything about Adeline seems fuller, more complete.

My lips met hers again, and she gently insisted my mouth to open with her tongue. I could have fainted with desire when her tongue touched mine. I needed her. I had to possess her fully. But I could not—and did not— allow such to happen. I didn't dare. If Adeline wanted it, that would be one thing. I would be more than willing. But she had to be ready. And I suppose that then, she wasn't.

Were it any other woman, I doubt I would have cared whether or not she was completely willing. But Adeline . . . Oh, Adeline is different. So different. I feel that if she wanted me to paint my face blue and stand on my head and sing Confederate war songs, I would. I've never, ever, felt like this before. She brings something to me. I'm not sure what, but it makes me complete. I've never felt more joyous in my life. She kissed me. And I love her.

21 April 1862.

Though our regiment has not been involved in many battles whatsoever, lack of supplies and rotting food have plagued myself and the other men. Adeline (that dear woman) has been good enough to go out and find supplies, claiming it is for a Confederate regiment. As of the time I wrote my last letter to Agnes, the ninth of April, many of us are still ill. I am not included in the numbers, but from the day I wrote the letter until just a few days ago I was feeling dizzy and feared I would become ill as well. Though I don't believe malnutrition is contagious (Heaven forbid it should be), I made sure to stay away from Adeline until I made sure that I was absolutely well. Which was agonizing for me, of course.

But last night made up for it all. Adeline and I were alone in the room she calls her own, sharing the same soft kisses that had entertained us in weeks past. Since our first kiss I had dared to press my lips against the milky skin of her neck. The citrus and magnolia scent is so much stronger there, so strong that it's nearly intoxicating. I shall never forget her scent. It is beautiful and infectious and when I go to sleep and night I think of it and I am content.

It was during those moments while I kissed her neck when I felt her hands against my chest, her fingers tugging gently on the buttons of my shirt. She had done that often enough, but as she began to unfasten them I trembled in anticipation. I knew then that the night would certainly be memorable.

I've never felt anything so wonderful in my life! To love Adeline is to experience both the divine and the sinful. She does not need the corset which she wears, her body molded perfectly by God's hand. Her breasts are full and firm, as pale as the skin of the rest of her body, aside from the sensitive pink tips which respond so deliciously to my touch. Her hair, when taken down, shimmers in candlelight and glows in sunlight. It cascades down to just below her breasts, to the middle of her delicately curving spine. To feel her touch and the reactions to your own is the most decidedly exquisite sensation when combined with the soft whispers she makes. The sight of her lush curves coated in a thin veneer of sweat, gleaming in candlelight, causes me, even just thinking of it, to grow weakened.

I will never understand how such pleasure, spawned from love, could ever be a sin. Perhaps it is selfish to have a wife and make love to another woman, and the betrayed to the spouse is sinful. Perhaps even the taking of pleasure from such an intimate embrace without the intent of procreation is a sin. If such be so, send me to Hell.

Olivia numbly set down the journal, her hands trembling and unable to flip any more pages. There was so much more to read, yet Olivia was unable to stand much more. So Agnes's suspicions about William and Adeline had been correct. She bit her lip, knowing the ill condition Agnes was in, an wondered exactly how she could allow Agnes to come about with the knowledge that her husband had, indeed, loved Adeline Newell. Perhaps, as Agnes had said, it was better not knowing than knowing. Olivia felt positively devastated. From the first of William's letters, he had seemed like the kind husband and loving father that Agnes deemed him to be. But as they had progressed, Gwen had told Olivia that it seemed he had stopped caring. And now Olivia knew why.

She began to set the journal back in the small box for it, when she saw something placed in the bottom that she had overlooked when she first took the journal out. A small photograph of a woman to her bustline, dressed elegantly in lace and what looked like silk. Olivia, at first glance, had thought it was Agnes. But in the photographs that she had seen of her friend in years past, Agnes's hair was blonde, her lips were thin and plain. The woman pictured had dark, shimmering hair, pulled back except for two sections to either side of her face, which were curled into ringlets. A lace and ribbon hair decoration sat upon the top of her head and was pinned on to just above her ears. Her eyes were also dark and expressive, with thick lashes. Unlike Agnes's, the woman's lips were full and lush, curled into a serious, pensive expression that almost looked like a flirtatious pout. The dress she wore was apparently made for balls and other special occasions, as it was strategically designed to reveal her milky shoulders and the swells of her breasts. Her neck was long and slender, and her skin appeared that it would be exquisitely soft and smooth, as if turned on a lathe. A locket on a long chain was placed around her neck, the circular charm resting just between her breasts. She was positively stunning.

Olivia gently picked the photograph up out of the box and examined it more closely. Was this the woman that William praised so highly and dreamed of at night? Was she the one who was granted William's love and affection while he was away from his wife? Olivia turned the photograph over to look at the back, and she found herself to be correct. In Adeline's script, it read: "My darling William—though you are not always here, I think of you. Keep this photograph with your journal and I hope that you will think of me we well.—Yours forever, Adeline."

Setting the photograph back in the box, she then replaced the journal and closed the lid. Adeline had been much lovlier than Agnes. Perhaps William was only tempted by the woman's beauty and not her soul. In such a sense Olivia could justify William's actions. He was far from home, and had not seen his wife in months, his only comraderie being other men. Adeline was a beautiful woman, and William lusted. Olivia felt personally afflicted by the idea that the two had truly been in love. They couldn't have been. William loved Agnes. At least, he was supposed to love her. Olivia found herself protective of Agnes, having seen how she reacted to simply the idea that William and Adeline had been together. Now, with Agnes unable to leave her bed, Olivia wouldn't dare to fathom the possibility of love blooming in the forbidden romance.

Olivia placed the box containing the journal into one of the drawers in her vanity, which also held her writing supplies. Taking a shuddering breath, she took the candle and limped from her bedroom. Agnes would only permit candlelight at night. She had told Olivia that it made Agnes feel younger again. But after reading William's journal, and how he spoke of Adeline in candelight, the very idea upset Olivia. The shadows that danced along the walls from the flickering flame did not seem to be Olivia's own, but rather an eerily sad image of a young Agnes wandering the house alone. He had left her long before he had died. Olivia could now see Agnes as a very lonely woman, and could assume why she no longer wanted photographs on the walls and on the shelves. Living with the suspicion that William had been unfaithful was difficult enough; she did not want to remind herself of him on a daily basis. She hid all images of him, and all images that reminded her of him—including the photographs of Millie. But why, then, would Agnes have allowed Olivia into her home, a girl who looked so much like her daughter? It seemed that the more answers Olivia received, the more questions appeared.

"Agnes?" Olivia murmured, peeking into Agnes's bedroom. The woman was awake, and staring at the ceiling. Stripped of her makeup and her fine clothing, only in a simple nightdress, Olivia could see how William must have seen Agnes forty years ago. Though the wrinkles contorted her features, she seemed so much more realistic and human this way. Her lips were pale and thin, as William had described, and as of now they were set without expression. She looked more like the photographs that Olivia had seen. Though certainly not as beautiful as Adeline, Olivia didn't think she really needed to be painted to look elegant.

Agnes looked over, stretching her lips into a smile. She lifted a shaking hand to Olivia, beckoning her. Olivia nodded and limped over, setting the candle on the nightstand.

"I would think you'd be asleep," Olivia said gently. "It's late."

"Posh," Agnes scoffed. "It's hardly eight o'clock. It's only evening."

Olivia squeezed Agnes's gnarled hand. "The doctor said you should get a lot of sleep and not strain yourself."

"I'm not straining myself, dear. I'm simply lying here, aren't I?"

"Well," Olivia said with a smile, "yes, you are."

Agnes's smile widened. She then turned her head away and coughed, the sound causing Olivia to wince. From what she had just read, Olivia couldn't help but pity the dear woman. She patted Agnes's hand, without the rings now, and sighed softly. Olivia had only stayed with Agnes a bit over a month and yet she felt a definite kinship with the woman, a certain connection.

"Did you read the journal?" Agnes asked weakly as the coughing subsided.

"The journal?"

"Yes. What does it say?"

Olivia took in a sharp breath and closed her eyes, thinking for a moment. She looked to Agnes with a smile. "No, it isn't true, Agnes. He writes of you all the time, and of how he misses you. William was faithful to you, Agnes. He loved you, and only you. There's no need for you to worry about the matter any longer."

Agnes's eyes brightened, their aquamarine hue brilliant in the dim light. "He did not love Adeline?"

"He did not love Adeline."

"He loved Adeline?"

"He loved Adeline."

Gwen's eyes widened and her glasses slipped down her nose considerably. A look of uncommon anger crossed her features and she clenched her fists tightly. "Whaddoya *mean* he loved 'er? He couldn't've loved Adeline, he was married to Agnes!"

Olivia bit her lip and nodded. "Yes, Gwen. Yes, I know. But it's his journal. Why would he lie about . . . about something like that in his own journal?"

"I hate him, Livvie," Gwen growled, flopping down on Olivia's bed. "Don't tell Agnes. She's sick."

"I didn't tell her. I told her precisely the opposite."

"You lied to her? That's as bad as tellin' her!"

Olivia frowned. "She asked me. I couldn't say anything without lying. That's what she wanted to hear. I'd like to think she rests easier now with that knowledge. She's lived with suspicion for forty years, Gwen. She shouldn't know the truth. Not now, not when she's so ill. It's better she hears what she wants."

Gwen sighed, stretching out her arms and extending her fingers. "Yeah, I guess so. How much did you read, Livvie?"

"Not that much," Olivia replied as she sank down onto the corner of the bed. "I started in the middle or so, where it was bookmarked. After . . . after the entry where Agnes's suspicions were proven I had to stop. I couldn't read much more."

"I wouldn' be able ta eitha, Liv. Once ya know it's true, den . . . why read more?"

Olivia clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Mhm. No reason," she mumbled as she looked down at her hands. Since she had lied to Agnes, she had felt positively miserable. But it was the only thing she felt she could do. Her hands smoothed her skirt and she laced her fingers together, sighing. "I feel terrible. I shouldn't have even read it. It's none of my concern in the first place."

"What'd I tell ya about readin' dem letters?" Gwen asked. "Now you'se're in ova yer head, Livvie. If you 'adn't read dose letters, Agnes wouldn'ta given you dat joynal. An' if she hadn' given you dat joynal, ya wouldn' know what ya regret ya know now. What's compellin' you to sneak inna other folks' business, anyhow?"

"I . . . I don't know, Gwen. I feel as if I must know. Or, at least, I did. I don't now."

Gwen pursed her lips and sat up, sliding off of Olivia's bed, and traced her fingers over the nightstand. She picked up the old pidgeon-feather quill lying in the inkwell and tested it on her finger. She then came to look over the papers that rested under the inkwell: what was left of The Plight of Roufoide.

"You a writer?"

Olivia looked down bashfully. "Well, I try to be. I'm not very good."

Gwen nodded, thinking. She made a short scribble on the parchment and set the quill back into the ink. "Dat's why."

"Why what?"

"Why you gotta know everythin'. I guess you gotta know everythin' so you can write about it, huh?"

"Well, I wasn't really planning on . . . on writing about this."

"Dat ain' what I'm sayin'. You just got dis curiosity sometimes dat makes you wanna know everythin' goin' on."

Olivia tapped her fingers on her knees. "I never thought about it that way."

Gwen nodded, and glanced out the window. Her short blonde hair rustled in the cool, mid-autumn breeze. Olivia leaned back against the pillows of her bed, resting her hands on her stomach. Her good leg dangled off the edge of the bed and swung lightly back and forth.

"Olivia?"

"Yes?"

"What do you wanna know, more than anythin' else?"

Olivia frowned. "What?"

Gwen turned to her, resting against the window sill. "If you wouldn' get ta know anythin' else . . . what would be da one t'ing ya hadta know?"

"Well, I . . ."

Olivia stood and went to her nightstand, slowly picking up the sheets of weathered paper that lay there. Her fingers drifted over the carefully written words of the dream she had tried to make a reality in a time that seemed so long ago. She closed her eyes, clutching the pages to her chest, her fingers caressing the top corners. She knew what she wanted.

"I want to know who my parents are."

Gwen turned to look at her, taking off her glasses to clean them against the edge of her shirt. She watched Olivia closely, her eyes squinting. "So, find yer parents."

Olivia sank down onto the soft mattress of the bed again. Images of her past flashed through her mind. Painful images. She shook her head. "I've lived as an orphan all my life, Gwen. I'll never know."

The lanky blonde came to sit next to Olivia, pursing her lips thoughtfully. She placed her hand on Olivia's shoulder gently. "Don' orphinages keep files of all da children dey have? Mebbe dey still 'ave yer file, an' maybe it'll tell ya somefin."

"Mrs. Opperheim said my file was a blank. Nothing in it."

"Dat can't be right. It's worth a try, ain' it?"

Olivia looked at Gwen, wide-eyed. She let the papers drop into her lap as she stared at her friend incredulously. "Are you saying we . . . we break into the orphanage to steal my files?"

"Yeah. Yer gone, why would dey still need 'em?" Gwen grinned as she patted Olivia's shoulder.

"No," Olivia replied as she stood, shaking her head. "Oh, no. Oh, no, I'm not going to risk that. You don't know how terrible it was in there, Gwen. I . . . I don't want to go back. Never. I don't ever want to return to the orphanage."

Gwen frowned, standing as well. "Not even ta know 'bout yer parents?"

"Not even to—" Olivia looked down, deep in thought. It was the only way she would ever know. There was no other clue that would bring her so close. Even if there was nothing in her file, at least she would know that, too. Whether her parents hated her or loved her, whether her mother truly died in childbirth, if the Roufoide story was actually the truth; nothing else could tell her. She had to go back.

"Gwen."

"Yeah?"

"We'll go tonight."

The orphanage was dark and desolate at night, seemingly innocent on the outside despite the broken window on the second floor and the broken hinge on the front door. Olivia took notice of them and inhaled the air. Her leg ached from walking, but she was thankful that she was at least able to find her way back. She looked to Gwen. Oh, Gwen, she thought. If only you knew what happened here.

As Gwen ripped her gaze from the building, Olivia forced a smile in her friend's direction.

"Home, sweet home," Olivia said with attempted, but unsuccessful, humour. "You're currently observing where I spent the last thirteen years."

Gwen pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and arched her thin brows. "It don' seem so bad."

"You don't know what went on inside. Come on, the window to the office is in the back."

The two girls made their way through the blanket of darkness enveloping the city, and to the back of the building. Their silence wasn't necessary, as Olivia knew that everyone would be asleep after midnight. But it was much better to, at least, be cautious.

Olivia led Gwen to the window on the first level that allowed them to look into the main office. They peered in, Olivia's fingers trembling as they brushed the windowsill. Taking a deep breath, she pushed up the window. It squeaked and groaned, going up slowly. Gasping at the sound, Olivia backed away.

"Livvie, no one's there, an' no one's noticin'," Gwen whispered. "Tell me where dem files are an' I'll get it."

"No—!" Olivia returned, wrapping her hands around the windowsill. "I have to do this."

"But, Livia, your leg—"

Olivia shook her head dismissively. "Help me up. I'll help you in, then, and you keep watch at the door."

Gwen frowned and hooked her fingers together, Olivia placing her left foot into the stirrup made by Gwen's hands, one of her own hands moving to press against her friend's shoulder to steady herself. Gwen helped her up to crawl into the window, and then tugged her own nimble body through the opening. Olivia and Gwen briefly exchanged glances, and Gwen went to the door, peeking out into the dark hallway.

"I can't see a thing," Olivia muttered as she fumbled for the drawer containing matches. As the shape of a matchbox came in contact with her hand, she drew it open and withdrew one of the red-topped wooden sticks. Striking it, she found her way to one of the candles, the wick igniting and illuminating the room with dim light and dancing shadows.

Olivia took in a deep breath and limped, as quietly as she could, to the cabinets of files. Exhaling, she opened the drawer marked "S." She flipped back to the back of the drawer, carefully tugging out the one marked SWIPPLE Olivia. Her fingers trembled and she opened it quickly.

Nothing.

Nothing except for two slips of paper. Olivia gasped and shook her head. One of the papers read, "Died Twenty-Six August 1901," in hastily scrawled print.

"Gwen," Olivia whispered with dismay. "It's blank. Mrs. Opperheim was right. There's nothing in it. Nothing."

Gwen turned to look back into the room. "Nothin'?"

Olivia sank down into the chair, staring at the file in disbelief. She slowly picked up the other slip of paper. It couldn't say anything of importance. "SWIPPLE Olivia. See HAMMOND Lydia," it read, in more carefully-written penmanship.

Olivia spoke the words out loud, puzzled.

Gwen looked at her, scratching her head. "What'd someun named Lydia Hammond have ta do with any o' dis?"

"I—I don't know," Olivia murmured. She raced to the "H" files and picked out the one labeled HAMMOND Lydia, and returned to sit down at the desk. She opened the file slowly. It contained a few papers, but more than her file had contained. The file stated that the girl came to Mrs. Opperheim's orphanage at the age of six months in 1888, the daughter of Eleanor Hammond, née Newell.

"My God," Olivia whispered. "Her mother's maiden name was Newell."

"Newell?" Gwen asked, frowning. "Weren' dat Adeline's last name?"

Olivia nodded.

"Well, dere're lotsa Newells. It ain' dat uncommon."

"True, I know," Olivia said softly, continuing to pick through the file. The name of Eleanor's husband was never mentioned, aside from mentions of a "Mr. Hammond" dispersed throughout the report. This struck Olivia as quite curious, but certainly possible if the man cared not to give his name. A small envelope was on top of the papers, and she slowly peeked in to observe the contents. A tiny necklace, designed for a young child or infant to wear. It was simple, with a single gold charm on it in the shape of a heart. The back was engraved with the girl's name, Lydia Hammond. Olivia picked at it with her fingernail to see if there was possibly a photograph or painting inside, but the necklace was not a locket. She let the chain drape over her fingers as she continued to look through the file.

Lydia Hammond's right leg was clubfooted from birth. Her eyes were dark brown. Her hair was also dark brown. Olivia's brow furrowed as she read the pages about a girl with an unknown name that seemed so much like herself. Too much like herself. Exactly like herself.

Suddenly, the chain dropped from her hand and clattered to the desk. Olivia gasped, staring at the last paper in the file. Lydia Hammond's name had been crossed out. Olivia's name was put in its place.

"Gwen—Oh, God, Gwen—" Olivia stammered as she stood, taking the last paper to her companion at the door. She could barely keep her voice down. "She's me."

"She's what?"

"Lydia Hammond is me. I mean—I mean, I'm Lydia Hammond."

"What in the hell is going on out there?"

The ear-piercing shout from a few rooms down the hallway caused Olivia to gasp. She grabbed Gwen's shoulder, and tugged her back into the office.

"It's Mrs. Opperheim, she's up! We have to go, now!" Olivia whispered harshly, shoving Gwen toward the window. Gwen leaped out and onto the ground as Olivia blew out the candle and rushed to the window again. She shook her head and went back to the desk. She fumbled in the darkness for the files and the necklace. She picked them up, shoving the necklace into her pocket, and slid out of the window with Gwen's assistance. As soon as Olivia shut the window and the pair ducked out of view, Mrs. Opperheim could be heard stepping into the office.

Olivia rested up against the wall, closing her eyes and waiting for her heartbeat to return normal. But before that could happen, Gwen grabbed her arm and the pair rushed back to the street, Olivia limping with all the speed she could muster, and raced back to Agnes's home on Twenty-Third Street.

I cannot write anymore. I simply cannot. Not when this is all so fresh on my mind.

Olivia closed her eyes as she closed the journal, not needing to read anymore. Eleanor Newell. If the baby was a girl, Adeline would have named her Eleanor. It couldn't be the same woman in HAMMOND Lydia's files. It had to be some sort of coincidence. Olivia shook her head and placed the journal back into the box before reviewing the file again. Her eyes briefly glanced to the porcelain figurine of Millie that sat comfortably in its new place on her dresser.

Millie.

Both Olivia and Agnes had been baffled by Olivia's resemblance to the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl portrayed in the figurine and the photographs. It was uncanny, how they looked alike. Olivia had never thought that they could possibly be related. But if Eleanor Newell Hammond was indeed the child of William Dover and Adeline Newell, then Millie would have been Olivia's aunt. Olivia had never been one to believe in fate, but she was beginning to think that there was a definite reason why she had bought that newspaper and why Agnes had brought her to live in the house on Twenty-Third Street.

Perhaps the newspaper had a clue as well. On a whim, she left her bed and went about her room, searching for the paper that she had once hated so. Olivia, as a rule, didn't throw anything out. She kept everything, but couldn't seem to find the paper. She searched drawers, countertops, the closet, under the bed. But there was no sign of the crumpled newspaper. Olivia sighed as she sank back onto the bed, lifting up the small necklace again and reading the name again.

She doubted if she would ever find the key to her parents. What she had now was an idea, a clue. She knew her real name, and had suspicions as to who her mother was and who her grandparents were. But she knew nothing else.

The clock in the foyer downstairs struck eight. Olivia stood and brushed off her skirt, limping out of the room. Agnes was to have her breakfast at half past, as the doctor had ordered. The cats mewed and swarmed her feet as she entered the kitchen to fix Agnes a bowl of sugared fruit and a plate of scrambled eggs. Olivia liked the fact that it was a simple enough meal, for she hadn't the faintest idea of how to cook.

Serena pawed at Olivia's clubfoot lightly as the girl stood by the stove, awkwardly trying to make scrambled eggs. She smiled down at the cat and Serena stared up at her, blinking a few times, before sprinting out of the room at a speed that baffled Olivia. It was something Serena had a tendency to do and Olivia couldn't understand it at all.

Once she had made a rather feeble attempt at breakfast, she put the plate and bowl, as well as a cup of tea and the proper utensils onto a tray and limped upstairs. She was barely able to keep it steady with her limp, but she had brought Agnes her meals for a few days, and had learned how to do it with the least trouble.

"Agnes, are you awake?" Olivia murmured as she stepped into the room.

Agnes was already sitting up in bed, leaning against an immense pile of pillows. She gave a weakened, but still vibrant, smile and smoothed the blankets over her lap.

"Of course I'm awake," Agnes said. "I haven't slept through eight strikes since '84."

Olivia laughed gently and shook her head. She limped into the bedroom and gently placed the tray over Agnes's lap, handing her the teacup. Agnes took it gratefully with her bony, gnarled hands and sipped. Olivia placed her fingers under the cup, in case Agnes dropped it. Despite how Agnes spoke, Olivia knew how ill Agnes really was. She watched the elderly woman with concern, though her face contained nothing but cheerfulness.

"You weren't here last night."

"What?"

Agnes set the china cup down on the tray, her fingers tracing the rim. "You weren't here last night."

Olivia blinked. How could Agnes have known? She closed her eyes and looked away, folding her hands over her knees. Her muscles tensed as if she was going to be hit, waiting to be reprimanded.

"I was worried," Agnes said, frowning, though she didn't sound at all angry. "Where did you go?"

"I . . . I, uhm," was all Olivia could manage.

Agnes picked up her spoon and started working on her fruit. "That's alright, you have your privacy. You don't have to tell me."

Olivia turned back to her and helped to steady her hand. Agnes looked slightly disappointed at this manner of attention, but didn't comment. She swallowed the bit of fruit she had in her mouth and waited for Olivia's response.

"No, I can tell you," Olivia began slowly. "I can. Gwen and I . . . We went back to the orphanage to find my files, so I could find out who my parents were, or are."

Agnes's eyes widened slowly and she set down her spoon. She looked to Olivia expectantly. "Go on. What did the file say?"

Olivia didn't answer. "Do you keep old newspapers?"

"What?"

"Old newspapers. Do you keep them anywhere? I mean, do you ever save newspapers?"

Agnes pressed her lips together for a second. "Yes, in the basement."

Olivia nodded eagerly. "Would you have anything from August? The day you met me, Agnes?"

Agnes coughed, and only repeated, "Yes, in the basement."

"Thank you, Agnes—" Olivia said quickly. "Thank you."

Before Agnes had the chance to speak again, Olivia had smoothed the bedcovers and limped from the room. She headed quickly down the stairs, holding onto the railing tightly as not to fall. The door to the basement was adjacent to the foyer and she had trouble going down the even steeper steps. Daylight shone in from the small windows near the basement ceiling, bathing the piles of stacked newspapers in dusty, soft illumination.

My God, Olivia thought. She must have kept every newspaper she's ever gotten from the last thirty years. She shook her head to clear the cloud of wonder hovering over her as she began searching through the stacks. Perhaps Agnes truly was as eccentric as Gwen said it was rumoured. The papers were kept in order, bundled by month and year. Olivia was baffled at how Agnes managed to keep everything so organized, and even more confused as to why she would ever do something like that. "Everything is a bit of history," Agnes had a habit of saying to her. That was the only plausible reason that Olivia could give. Even so, it was a blessing. Olivia searched through the piles of papers to find the edition for August twenty-seventh, 1901. Olivia found the bundle quickly, untying the string and drawing out the paper she needed.

Finding the paper was the easy part. Reading through the paper to find possible clues was what was difficult. By the fifth page, Olivia realized how ridiculous she was being. Why should the newspaper hold any clue to her past? It was just a newspaper. There weren't any articles which mentioned anything that would help. And it had helped enough already, by bringing her to Agnes. Olivia sighed and began to fold the paper again.

An advertisement in the corner of the third page caught her eye. It was a small, simple advertisement with the image of a girl playing with a doll. The text read plainly: "Victoria Curiosities—Find the gifts you really want." Olivia pursed her lips together and scanned the advert. At the very bottom, below the address, were the words, "Thomas Hammond, owner."

Hammond. Olivia gasped softly, carefully ripping the advertisement from the page before replacing the paper into its stack. She read it over again in the dim light and tucked it quickly into her dress pocket, standing and limping up the stairs into the foyer. Shooing the cats from her feet, she went back up the main stairwell to Agnes's room.

"Agnes?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I'm going out. I'll be back soon, will you be alright?"

Agnes coughed. "Of course I will, don't you worry."

Olivia smiled a little and shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak but only grinned, and left the room in a rush, down the stairs and out the door.

The hand that held the newspaper clipping and engraved bracelet trembled as Olivia looked up at the small building. The window was decorated to read "Victoria Curiosities" in calligraphic script, and a sign above the door had the same words. The window display was immense and unusual: several miscellaneous trinkets and toys arranged in magnificently chaotic beauty. Most noticable was a doll, sitting in the front corner by the door. It was old, obviously secondhand, but it seemed hardly played with—damaged only by time. The blonde curls were tousled and unkept, the pink velvet bow matted and crumpled. The fabric of her dress was also wrinkled and faded, the porcelain skin stained with time and tobacco. Olivia's expression turned to one of compassion as she knelt down to further examine the old doll in the window. Around the neck was a tarnished silver chain with a heart charm.

Olivia blinked, and lifted her bracelet up to compare it with the doll's necklace. They were identical.

It had to be a coincidence. The make of the jewelry was common and simple. Simply because the doll's necklace was the same as her bracelet didn't mean anything. She squinted, trying to make out any initials on the charm. If there were any, they were on the back of the charm, which was against the doll's collar. There was a reason to go in, at least.

With a deep breath, Olivia tugged open the door to the curiosity shop and opened the door. As she limped in, she was overcome with a sight that astounded her. And she had thought Agnes's house was a bizarre sight! There were no boxes to contain any of the treasures lining every inch of the shop. Toys, dolls, books, and decorative boxes covered the shelves and counters, ornate oriental rugs clothed the floorboards. Decorative porcelain eggs from the Middle East, exotic jewelry, books of faraway places with colourful illustrations that sprang from the pages. Olivia was in awe of the vibrant colours and mass of items that crowded into the small area.

Once she had taken in her overwhelming surroundings, she peered about for someone who worked there. Not finding anyone, she took it upon herself to go to the window display and examine the doll. She leaned over the low shelf and gently plucked the porcelain plaything from its spot in the corner. One hand held the doll by the waist while the other reached slowly to turn over the charm.

"May I help you?"

Olivia gasped and nearly dropped the doll. From a wall of masks and costumes came a man. He was tall, and somewhat thin, in a simple brown suit that was tailored perfectly to his form. He was in his thirties, Olivia guessed, with nearly combed brown hair and a thick moustache. An unlit pipe was casually resting in his left hand. But his expression was one of calm upset.

"Sir, I was just looking at this—"

"It's not for sale," he said sternly.

"I wasn't looking to buy it, I—"

"Put it back in the window, you're not to touch it."

Olivia limped back a step, forcing her eyes away from the man. Slowly and carefully, she set the doll back into the window display, biting her lip as she fingered the bracelet that she held with the newspaper clipping.

"Sir, I apologize—"

He looked the girl over slowly, lightly tapping the mouthpiece of the pipe against his chin. Shaking his head, he returned to the main desk. Olivia's eyes followed him. The desk, along with having a cash register resting comfortably on the counter, had two trays of rings, books of matches, pipe tobacco, and boxes of snuff. Beside the cash register, however, Olivia was stunned to see a small framed photograph of an elegantly dressed woman with dark hair and dark eyes. It was a photograph she easily recognized.

Adeline. The very same image that was in the box that held William's journal.

"Sir?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"Who is this in the picture?"

"It really isn't important. You do ask a precarious amount of questions." The man tapped his fingers on the counter and looked to her expectantly. "Was there . . . anything else that you came in here for?"

Olivia approached the desk slowly, her limp causing the floorboards to creak under her steps. She slowly placed the bracelet onto the table, her eyes not on the man, but on the photograph of Adeline. The man picked it up and let it dangle from his fingers, examining it casually.

"Yes, what of it?"

"Well, sir, I—" she managed, her voice trailing off as she leaned in to further examine the photograph.

The man's forefinger lightly brushed the silver charm on the bracelet, turning it over in his palm. His casual nature faded and he fell silent. Expecting a response, Olivia looked up at him, surprised to see his solemn expression.

"Where did you get this," he murmured.

Olivia stepped back slightly. "I—It was—"

"Where. Tell me where you got this."

She cringed at the man's desperate and nearly angry tone. "I got it . . . I got it in the orphanage . . . That I used to live in and . . . I found it. I shouldn't have taken it but it was in an envelope and no one seemed to want it—"

"What's your name?" he asked, his hand tightening around the chain of the bracelet.

"O-Olivia Swipple, sir," the girl replied softly, looking down at her feet. Her hand instinctively reached out to brush against a shelf of books nearby.

The man winced, as if an arrow had shot him in the chest. He let the bracelet fall from his fingers and clatter quietly to the desk. A look of disappointment and upset contorted his features. His moustache curled into the frown his lips had made.

"Do you know the initials on this bracelet?"

"What?"

"The initials," he repeated.

"L.H., sir," Olivia answered. "L-Lydia Hammond."

The man blinked and looked to her quickly. "You know who this belonged to?"

"I . . . Yes, sir."

He nearly ran from his place behind the counter, bending down to Olivia's height. He grabbed her shoulders desperately. "Is she alright? Is she alive? Where can I find her?"

Olivia gasped at the man's sudden touch, staring at him with wide, startled eyes. She stammered, lightly taking his hands and prying them from her shoulders. Her own hands were trembling with apprehention. The doll's necklace, the photo of Adeline. The man recognizing the bracelet. The fact that a Thomas Hammond owned the store. It was all adding up to something inevitable. Who was this man? What was she to him?

As her mind raced, she didn't notice the man kneel down as he examined her clubfoot. He took in a shaky breath and looked up at her.

"I need to know," he said, his voice no more than a murmur, "do you know anything about Lydia Hammond?"

Olivia gulped. "Yes, sir."

"What?" he replied quickly as he stood. "What—How much do you know? What do you know?"

"I know . . . I know that . . . that I'm her. And that my name was changed when I was a baby. M-My real name is Lydia Hammond . . . and the bracelet belongs to me."

"My God," the man murmured as he touched Olivia's cheek. "Lydia. My Lydia . . ."

"Sir?"

"Lydia—Olivia . . . I'm your father."