The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

and the second story looking particularly empty—the intuitive feeling one often gets when a building has been deserted.

My only hope of seeing Linton will be to go to the address Louisa gave me. I suppose that’s what I’ll do when I gather up the nerve; my emotions are still raw from Paris. Louisa’s warning about his condition has tempered my enthusiasm; but, since my return, I’ve overlooked the ache in my heart. The memory of Linton’s affections, which pushed me to France, has returned. Suddenly, it’s as though I have that insane choice to make between Tom and Linton. Is the ache in my heart from the possibility of what Linton and I could have had—as he pointed out in our last conversation at the Livingstons’?

The war and France have changed me. How can one do the work I did and not be altered? Life is more precious to me than it has ever been, though I lack the love I desire. If I had to make the choice between Tom and Linton, I fear it would tear me apart.

Lazarus has nosed open my studio door in order to find me. He has been overly affectionate the past few weeks, especially since he’s gotten used to me being here again. But I believe there is another reason for his attentions. He is protective through his own instinct, and knows by his senses—as I do as well—that my body carries another human being. And as the child grows, the haunting dream dissolves. I used Kurt for my own advantage, but I have no remorse. How could I live with this hideous dream for the rest of my days?

CHAPTER 12

BOSTON

February 1919

A brilliant powdery blue sky covered Boston. The air was cold enough for snow, but the sun shone without clouds for company. The morning passed with Emma bent over the toilet bowl; however, the queasy sickness had faded by noon when she managed to eat a bowl of oatmeal for lunch.

After the bout with her stomach had cleared, feeling well enough for a walk, she’d decided to find Linton, knowing she could no longer put off the inevitable. Time waits for no man—or woman.

She traversed the narrow streets of the West End where the row houses, in their congested and endless line of brick fronts, depressed her. The deeper she descended, the closer she came to the address she sought, the worse the houses became. Many of them stood derelict, their windows broken or shuttered with yellowed newspaper, the wooden steps rotting from the damp. In the dark shadows that covered some of the façades, Emma spotted candles burning through the windows—a piteous source of heat on a frigid day.

She shuddered upon reaching the address Louisa had given her, lifting the note from the shadows into the sunlight to make sure she had arrived at the right building—but there was no mistake. She stared at the house and struggled to contain her revulsion. The third-floor windows were broken, the frames twisted like branches into the air. Pigeons cooed and fluttered in the openings. A filthy sheet covered the second-story windows and behind the makeshift scrim, the figure of a heavyset man moved in shadowy outline. The first-floor windows were sealed against all light, heavy maroon drapes hanging against them like ornamental swags adorning a tomb.

She gathered her courage and forced herself to knock on the door. Curses rose from above, followed by the heavy clomp of feet down the stairs. The door flew open and Emma faced a man larger than John Harvey, balls of yellow spittle clinging to his mustache, the warm odor of beer floating on his breath.

“What do ya want?” he asked in a brogue laced with hostility.

“I’m looking for Mr. Linton Bower,” Emma said, trying to maintain her composure.

“He ain’t ’ere,” the man replied, “and no decent woman would go looking for ’im in this neighborhood.”

“Are you sure he isn’t here? This is the address I was given.”

“Quite,” he replied with mock civility. “Now, go about yer business elsewhere.”

Emma was about to leave when she heard a raspy voice call out from the first-floor apartment, “Terry, who’s there? Is it a visitor for me?”

“Shut up and mind yer business,” the man spit back. “Yer not fit for guests.”

“Is that Mr. Bower?” Emma poked her head past the doorway.

“Did you ’ear me? I said begone.”

“Terry?” the voice asked again, this time with more force.

“Go back to bed,” Terry shouted at the door and then turned on Emma. “This ain’t none of yer concern!”

“If it is Mr. Bower, it is definitely my concern—and his.”

“I knew it,” the man said. “Yer after money, too. Well, the bugger ain’t paid his rent for two months, and he ain’t gettin’ out of here scot free.”

Emma looked past Terry as the inside door inched open. Through the crack, the face of a man appeared, although she wasn’t at all sure the features belonged to Linton. Filmy eyes sank deep into ashen sockets; the man’s black hair lay matted against his scalp. He wore trousers but no shirt, his shoulders and chest wrapped loosely in a gray blanket.

“Linton?” Emma asked, barely containing her horror.

The tenant’s face twisted toward the door; then, his head tilted back in recognition.

“Emma?” His voice barely rose above a whisper.

“It is you!” She ran into Terry, who blocked the doorway with his girth. “Please, let me past.”

Linton lowered his head and said, “You should leave. It isn’t safe—it isn’t right.”

“Are ya deaf?” Terry asked. “He’s told ya to get out.”

“I have money. I’ll give you twenty dollars if you let me pass.”

Terry’s eyes lit up.

Emma withdrew two bills from her coat pocket and pushed them into his outstretched palm.

He bowed slightly and let her pass.

She rushed toward the door.

Linton attempted to close it in front of her, but she pushed back, staring through the gap between them. His legs buckling, his strength failing to sustain the resistance, he clutched the doorknob before collapsing.

“My God,” Emma said. “You