1.

Winnie could hear the ladies in the parlour.

Of course, this was certainly nothing new. Most days she could be in her bedroom, an entire floor above them, their shrill voices would still manage to reach her unwilling ears.

Today, however, the ladies seemed especially upset about something.

Winnie lingered outside the parlour, her feet bare and tip-toeing hesitantly across the wood floors. She didn't dare step on the boards she knew would certainly groan under her weight. She didn't want mother, nor any of her friends, to know she was eavesdropping. She could get in trouble. Or worse, be forced to join the conversation.

"—an absolute freak show," her mother was saying, her voice thick with revulsion. The other women offered their agreements.

"I certainly would never subject myself to that sort of a sight," she continued. "Imagine, sitting there and witnessing that spectacle of…of…monstrosities!"

Now Winnie was intrigued. Monstrosities? Freaks? What could her mother possibly be talking about?

She moved closer to the doorway, still hidden by the shadows in the hall but now able to get a better look inside. She saw her mother seated at the head of the table (of course), sipping at her tea with her mouth turned down quite sourly. On either side of her, several of her friends did the same, each sharing looks of absolute abhorrence. Whatever they spoke of, clearly none of them approved.

Millie Palmer, a woman who Winnie always associated with the nauseating smell of musky perfume, produced a piece of paper and showed the ladies at the table.

"'Barnum Museum'," she read with a trill laugh. "I should hardly think so. More like a parade of misfits, if you ask me."

This was the first Winnie had heard of this Barnum Museum. She strained to see what the paper displayed but Millie was crumpling it in her shaking fist.

"Ridiculous," she announced, and tossed the paper aside.

Winnie's mother clucked her tongue in agreement. "Mark my word, the people of this city will not buy into this sort display. We are a society of class and elegance. That place will be closed before it even opens."

The rest of the women offered their support for this, but Winnie was done listening. Her eyes had followed the crumpled ball of paper and now stared eagerly at where it had landed, not a foot away from the door. If she could just sneak in there and grab it, she could find out just what this museum of monstrosities is. Perhaps the ladies would finish their tea and leave soon.

Or, perhaps, she could inch just slightly closer and reach her arm in, snatching up the paper before any of the ladies noticed she'd done it.

Encouraged by her own idea, Winnie crept closer to the door and ducked down slightly, wearily eyeing her mother. She seemed distracted by her sorority of birds, all chirping and agreeing with whatever nonsense she sputtered out that day. Surely she wouldn't notice if Winnie just moved the tiniest bit closer…

"Winnifred?"

Oh no.

She snapped upright at the sound of her mother's voice. "Yes, mother?"

All of the ladies had turned in their chairs and were now staring with narrowed, accusing eyes. Her mother's stare burned hotter than all the rest.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asked, her words tight and clipped.

Winnie clasped her hands behind her back and straightened her posture, conscious that otherwise, this was certainly something her mother point out for her to do.

"I heard you all discussing something with such passion and distaste," she said softly. "I simply came to find out what was so distressing to warrant it."

Certainly not a lie. Winnie had ventured towards the parlour to discover what the ladies hated so much. She simply just resisted adding she was intrigued.

Her mother replaced her teacup to its saucer and squarely faced her daughter. "That's nothing a young lady should concern herself with. Besides," her eyes flickered to search the faces of each of her friends', "we do not suspect it will be a problem much longer."

The women all murmured in unison, nodding their heads.

Winnie simply remained in the doorway, resisting the urge to bend her knees and snatch up the ball of crumpled paper. She was so close to it now – she could practically touch it with her toes. She didn't dare move, however. She was no fool.

"Have you finished your readings?" Her mother asked now.

Winnie nodded. "Yes," she lied smoothly. "I finished within the hour, actually."

"Good. And your writings?"

"Finished."

The smile that stretched across her mother's lips was pleased, but fleeting. It was gone before she was sure she actually saw it.

"Then I suppose you have time to sit and join us," her mother said, gesturing to the one empty chair left at the table. "Surely you would like to spend more time with the ladies of society. After all, you will be joining yourself soon."

Winnie found it difficult to swallow the idea but felt herself nodding in agreement. "Yes, mother. Of course I'll join you."

It was tradition in her family for young women to become a part of the society when they reached the age of sixteen. However, Winnie had put off joining herself, insisting she finish her schooling before resigning herself to a fate of tired luncheons and stuffy banquets before eventually marrying some stiff-lipped son of one of the society's members.

Her mother, of course, wanted her to join right away. Thankfully, Winnie's father, himself an educated man, agreed perhaps it would be best for Winnie to finish her studies. He saw a brightness in his own child, an intelligence he didn't wish to stand back and watch fade during a life composed of high society rituals.

He was, and remains, certainly the only man Winnie could ever love so much.

Now she was twenty-two and had finished her studies, earning herself a degree in literature and ancient history. Where she could go from there was mapped by a forked road – one path lead to a life of teaching children, which she's never believed herself fit to pursue, and the other lead to a life spent wasting away in parlours, such as her own, sipping tea and resigning herself to a fate worse than death.

The ladies at the table began chatting about the upcoming Sunday service at church but Winnie could not bring herself to join. She numbly chewed on a sugar biscuit and focused on keeping her back straight against her chair, all the while gazing longingly at the crumpled paper.

At some point during the conversation, the paper began to unravel itself, almost as if the heat of her gaze was enough to kickstart the process. It was slow, agonizingly slow, but eventually it expanded enough for Winnie to be able to make out the image of a man.

He stared impassively back at her, unsmiling, emotionless. She found herself caught in a staring contest with a painting but she couldn't help it. She couldn't look away.

He was young, she could tell that right away. Perhaps only a few years older than her. But there was wisdom behind his dark eyes – a history that captured her heart and made her feel breathless. What have those eyes seen to age him so? What has he witnessed to make him appear so calm and yet so anguished?

It took her a moment of staring to realize there was more to this man than dark hair, a thick beard and those powerful eyes. His skin was covered in ink, little markings that began on his forehead and went all the way down his cheeks.

The symbols meant nothing to Winnie and yet she felt herself yearning to trace them with the soft pad of her finger.

There was a title printed above the man's head. She couldn't really make it out at first – parts of it were still crumpled. But eventually she deciphered it to say, "TATTOO MAN".

"But what is his name?" Winnie asked aloud, surprising herself and the ladies at the table who all fell silent.

Her mother blinked furiously at her, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Excuse me?"

Winnie floundered for a moment and then caught the gaze of Elizabeth Harman from across the table.

"I said what is his name…Your son, Elizabeth. The one who danced with me at the banquet last spring. What is his name?"

Elizabeth looked taken aback for a moment before relaxing into a hesitant smile. "Oh. Well, that was my eldest, Bernard. He's a physician at the hospital here in town." She offered a subtle wink that really wasn't so subtle. "He's quite single and quite available, you know."

Her mother was still staring at her daughter hotly. "Why do you ask, Winnifred?"

"Oh," she squirmed slightly, uneasily. "I realized I haven't seen him at church lately. I've been hoping to run into him and talk more about his…practice."

Elizabeth was nodding, caught up in gloating about her son to the table. "Yes, well that's because he's been unimaginably busy lately. Lots of people catching viruses, you know. Terrible. But he's making a more than generous wage from it." She smiled proudly. "He's moved out and into his own home now. Won't be long before some lucky young woman catches his attention and keeps it."

Winnie forced a smile in return. "Perhaps I should pay him a visit. I've been feeling a little under the weather myself lately. It would also give us an opportunity to get to know each other even better."

The table erupted into excited bursts of suggestions for Winnie, all about the tremendous wedding ceremony she and "Doctor Bernard" could have, should they be engaged by summer. Winnie nodded along to each and every eager suggestion, all the while aware of her mother's suspicious, cold smile from the head of the table. She refused to look at her though and played along, easily slipping into the role of society lady quite well.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the gaze of the tattooed man and felt her heart leap into her throat. It wasn't quite as fierce or as accusing as her mother's, but it certainly felt knowing – like he could see through her lie and wasn't afraid to let her know he had caught her.

But why did it feel so exhilarating to be caught by him?