Darker Still by Leanna Renee Hieber Page B

confusion. Clearly I did not belong with these girls. I was perfectly capable of removing myself to somewhere where I would be more wanted.
    I longed to run to the Metropolitan and throw myself into the painting and into Denbury’s arms, but I had to remember what had been real and what had been a dream and maintain some sense of propriety. All of it was made of madness, though, so what could I believe? I had known Denbury for only a few days—and part of that only in dreams. But even those brief moments had been enough for me to recognize that he was the one person who made me feel alive, beautiful, whole, and good for something. Funny how extraordinary circumstances breed close kinship.
    But rather than darting up to the Metropolitan, I continued downtown, ignoring the glances of those who wondered what a girl in a relatively nice evening dress was doing walking unaccompanied down Fifth Avenue. Surely they thought I was either a dress lodger looking for a gentleman to pay for my services or a neighborhood eccentric. I hoped that the burning frustration knitting my brow and narrowing my eyes betrayed the latter.
    I didn’t realize where I was going until I was at the door and facing its hefty bronze knocker. I lifted it and let it fall, anxiously hoping I wouldn’t regret my intrusion. I waited for a servant to appear, but instead I was greeted by the very woman I’d come to see, dressed smartly neck to toe in charcoal gray, hardly a summer day dress. Mrs. Northe didn’t seem influenced by what was or wasn’t proper fashion. She was always elegant, ever beautiful. She was everything I wanted to be someday.
    “Hello, Natalie, I’m so glad to see you!” Mrs. Northe exclaimed, bringing me in the door and directly to her parlor. I almost sagged with relief at her warm welcome. But before I could get too comfortable, she surprised me with a wary question: “I don’t suppose you saw the papers today, did you? The Herald ?”
    I shook my head and signed: “I was preoccupied. The girls…”
    “Ah, yes,” Mrs. Northe said brightly. “Margaret had you over for tea. Did you have a nice time?”
    I hoped to convey everything in a look. Explaining was too difficult. Mrs. Northe’s elegant, stoic face curved into an amused expression, her hazel eyes sparkling. “Oh, Natalie, I’m sorry to seem amused. It’s just that girls can be so terrible .”
    Rallying a faint smile, I accepted the tea Marie offered, even though I’d had plenty already that morning.
    “I have it on high authority that you’re not like other girls, my dear, so don’t worry about being like anyone else. Do you understand?” Mrs. Northe said.
    “I think so,” I signed. She smiled in return, but then the smile faded, and with its departure, a chill crept into the room.
    “And I’m sure we’ll have plenty of cause for tea and company. But I wish it were under better circumstances. There’s something in this morning’s paper that you must see. Unpleasant, I’m afraid.”
    “Unpleasant” wasn’t the half of it. I’ve included the article here so you will understand my distress.
The Herald , June 12, 1880
Young Aristocrat Slays Woman in Brothel Nightmare
Late last night just off Cross Street in the hellish zone of the Five Points, nineteen-year-old Barbara Call was found beheaded in the back room of a house of ill repute and with bizarre markings carved into her forearm.
Witnesses described Miss Call’s “suitor” as shockingly handsome, with a fine suit of worsted wool, black curls, and bright eyes. The British-accented man called himself “Barry.” A composite sketch is rendered here from accounts of witnesses who saw the man take Miss Call into a private room after he’d taken care to ascertain her name. No sounds were heard from within the room, and no one saw Barry exit. Nor did they see Miss Call alive again.
The New York City Police Department requests any information the public might have about this man or his further