It’s a formal request for a meeting at the bank and for an explanation of the details of his trust. Quinn had told me he’d be composing just such a note to Uncle Henry. The contents aren’t what I see. There are no magic words here.

My chemise has gone damp with sweat. Phrases stab my eyes; I snatch the paper, balling it so tight that my fingernails bite my palm. I am stuck and bleeding with the knowledge. It can’t be undone. I back out of the study and run, my heels catching and digging into the carpet. On the landing I nearly sprain my ankle as I rush into my room, locking the door behind me.

“Please, dear Lord. It’s not true. Don’t let it be true.”

Will’s last letter from Camp Sumter is kept with his others safe inside the pages of my scrapbook. So many times I’d knelt before the hearth or grate, intending to destroy it. To torch its physical reminder. Turn it to ash. At the last minute, I never could. It was Will’s final clutch of contact with me before I’d lost him altogether. Or so I’d thought.

Steeling myself, I unfold it. Then I smooth out Quinn’s note to Uncle Henry and place it next to Will’s prison confession.

The blocks of paragraph, the cutting strokes of his uppercase letters, the back slant of his lower loops. My finger traces these same words as my lips repeat them, hearing their fierce braggadocio. I’d never found Will’s identity in that final letter. His words had never imprinted as the young man I could claim as my own. So I clung to the assertion that he’d changed from the war. How could he not have been changed?

I’d read that letter with my own pain surging through me. I’d read that confession with hardly a thought to the writer. For it hadn’t struck me, not once, that it wasn’t the same man at all.

Right-handed, Quinn’s letters had been elegant as a woman’s. In readapting to his left hand, his style has taken on some of his brother’s traits. The narrow loops, that blown-back slant. Some of Will, but much of Quinn remains on the page.

With shaking hands, I tuck both letters into my skirt pocket and hurry from my bedroom. Wheeling around the staircase and gripping the banister for balance, I see Madame in her cloak at the mirror, making fastidious adjustments to her hat as she prepares to leave.

“Madame,” I whisper. But new doubts strangle my breath.

Here it is, laid out in front of me. The sense of what I ought to have seen all along. And yet, staring into the horror of the moment, I’m numb. I need to force myself to action, but I am paralyzed by what that means for me.

A monster. He is a monster.

A cry escapes my lips. Startled, Madame looks up and catches my eye in the mirror’s reflection. “Why, Mademoiselle Jennie, what is it? What has happened?”

I want to hide, but instead I run, hurtling down the stairs to grasp hold of the dressmaker’s wrists, my eyes beseeching her. “Take me away from here, Madame. Please, I must go at once!”


27.