Page 49 of My Darling Girls

Charles’s shoulders hunch over as if he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. His naked legs dangle in the air. Jo watches the boy for a few seconds, and a small pebble, sharp and cutting, slinks down her throat. She never wanted children, or so she thought, but seeing this boy stirs something inside her. Something resembling a longing. A biological need. To distract herself from the boy, from her thoughts about motherhood, Jo studies the kitchen cabinet on the far side of the room. It’s wooden, painted white and dotted with dark spots that look like dirt. A rack with copper pots dangles over the cast-iron stove. There is a cobweb in the corner.

“Would you like some tea?” Grace asks. “I was going to make some for myself.”

Jo smiles. “Yes, thank you.” She prefers coffee or maybe some whiskey, but the tea will do.

The boy slams his hand onto the table and screams, “Me too. Tea. And Cracker Jack.”

“Don’t be a brute, Charles.” Grace wrinkles her nose, shakes her head. “You already had two cups. I don’t think it’s a good idea to have another one. And no more Cracker Jack. You had more than enough.” The boy’s face scrunches into a grimace. “Charles, don’t you dare.”

Charles lets out a piercing wail, slides to the floor, and runs out of the kitchen. Grace stands up, looking after him, but doesn’t follow. She goes to the stove and puts a black-handled kettle on. “I’ve been dealing with him all day. Thankfully, his brother and sister are sleeping.” She looks at Jo. “At least, I hope they’re sleeping. I probably should go and check.”

Together they walk down the hallway. There are a few daguerreotypes and a couple of family portraits on the wall. There’s one of Ira in a black suit and starched shirt, standing tall and proud, smiling into the camera. Her stomach drops as Jo recognizes August’s studio. There is an empty space on the wall next to Ira’s portrait. Grace notices Jo studying the pictures and points at a space between two photos.

“She was right here. Millie. The photo you made of her.”

“What happened to it?”

“Mother removed it a week after the funeral. Said it was too much for her.” Something in her tone snaps Jo to attention, and she turns to look at Grace. “She said Millie was haunting her in her dreams. Mother believes your pictures captured her soul and now it’s trapped inside the photographs, trying to break free. Mother removed all her photos.”

“Is that why the mirrors are still covered up? To make sure Millie’s soul doesn’t escape into our world?”

Grace nods, sets her hands on her hips, inspecting the empty space where Millie’s picture once was. “I find it odd, but Mother’s afraid of what she might see reflecting back at her from a mirror.” A strong emotion passes over her face, a shadow of sadness and anger and something else. Something fierce. “I tried to find Millie’s pictures. I don’t know what she did with them, but I doubt she keeps them in the house.”

“Where’s she now? Your mother?”

“Went to see a butcher. She should be back soon.” Grace turns, dropping her hands, and lifts her chin in the direction of the staircase. “The children are upstairs.”

They go to the second floor, where Grace cracks open the door into a small bedroom. Two beds sit across from one another on either side of a small window overlooking the backyard. A girl, about five, is sprawled in her sleep under the covers in the bed on the right. She has the same brown hair as Millie. Her face is heart shaped like Millie’s, but there are freckles all over her nose. A boy is sleeping in another bed. His hair is a shade darker than his sister’s. He’s facing the wall, and Charles, already deep in his sleep, is snuggling at his brother’s side.

Grace watches her siblings for a few long breaths before carefully closing the door.

Back in the kitchen, Jo says, “Your uncle paid me a visit.”

Grace sets two cups of steaming tea and two saucers on the table. “Sugar?” Her voice is steady, but her hands twitch, and she almost spills the tea.

Jo shakes her head, takes her cup, and places it on the saucer. “He asked me to tell you that we cannot continue with our photography lessons because you’re getting married next month. And you need to focus on the wedding. I came to say congratulations. Finn’s a fine young man. I hope you’ll be happy.”

Grace lowers herself into the chair with a sigh. “I don’t love Finn. You know that. Not the way I loved Sally.” She meets Jo’s eyes. “He’s like a brother to me. But Ira doesn’t care.” She lowers her gaze to her cup and whispers, “No one does.” There’s desolate hollowness in her words.

“I care, Grace.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know your sister.” As soon as she hears herself say the words, Jo knows it was a mistake. But there’s no way back, and she pushes forward. “There’s something I need to tell you. And when I do, you’ll think I’m mad.” Jo takes a sip of her tea. “I was in Old Zhang’s den because I get my opium there. When August was killed, I couldn’t sleep, but then I discovered opium. It helps me sleep. A few days ago, I dreamt of Millie.”

“What?” Grace whispers. Her lips are pale, blood completely drained away from her face. “What do you mean?”

Jo takes another sip and tells Grace about Millie and Horace, and the well with muddy water, but skips the part of the deal she made with the dead girl.

Find my killer, help me move on, and the Master will grant your wish.

“Millie’s stuck in between the worlds. Untethered. A lost soul.” Goose bumps spring and travel down Jo’s spine like soft murmurs of a breeze, as if each spoken word about the courtyard transports the sound to in between the realms, where the dead can hear her. “We must help Millie move on. We must find out what happened to her.”

Grace slams her cup onto the saucer with such force it’s a surprise nothing shatters. “You were right when you said I’ll think you’re mad.” Grace fixes Jo with a glare. “Why would Millie ask you for help out of all people? What makes you so special?” Because I talk to the dead, Jo almost says, but she bites down on her tongue. There’s no need to sound even more insane. “I also reckoned why you were so distraught when you saw Sally’s nude pictures. You said you didn’t know the photographer, but you did know him. I remembered seeing the same stamp on a few photos in your studio, Jo. It was your husband, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t know August worked for Ira.” Her voice is low, weak.

“Sally told me about the photographer. She said he wasn’t as bad as the others.”