"Momma, may I have some water?" Millie asked as I put tucked her into the nursery bed for her nap. Helen dozed in the bed next to her.

"Of course, darling," I replied, smoothing her curls back. I looked to the end table and realized that there was none there as there usually was in our home. I quickly scanned the room for a glass. There, I could use the one from from the tea set. I picked up a tea cup that sat before a doll that would not have looked out of place in Louis XIV's court. It was not much larger than the head of a newly born kitten but it was capable of holding water. It would certainly look strange to use the diminutive cup, but then, it was only for an hour. Now where might the loo be? I saw the door to the left was open just enough for the tiled wall to peek through the crack. I carefully opened the door that it would not squeak and wake Helen, and slipped inside.

I found the sink immediately. One particularly good thing about the recent renovations on the house was that they had installed modern plumbing with both hot and cold running water. I turned on the tap, rinsing the cup and then filling it, allowing my eyes to wonder up to the medicine chest. Laudanum. I shuddered at the familiar little bottle that had come so close to ending my brother's life. Vibrona. Coca Cola syrup. Belladonna. Phosphates. I turned off the water and was about to go when I heard voices coming from the room behind the door opposite the one I had entered through. I crept up to the door, placing my ear to the crack.

"Can it really not wait two days?" I heard Mrs. Frick say.

"No. We've put it off too long as it is." Mr. Frick answered.

"I wish you could stay for Helen's birthday"

"We already celebrated this past weekend. At her age she doesn't know one day from another."

"I know, but still. You've hardly been home for a month. I don't know how much more of this I can bear alone."

"It is only for nine days"

"And nine more and nine more after that, with only a few days for us in between." Mrs. Frick's voice was becoming more pitched.

"It is only for a short while longer."

"You don't know how they look at me on the street, you've not heard what they say. And then to come home to an empty cradle an empty bed in the nursery, to see every day where she played, where I nursed him by the window. And then you have become a stranger to me in my own household. Your room is a shrine to her and I have no part in it."

"Dear, you really shouldn't close the windows. You know the doctor said you needed plenty of oxygen."

"I don't need oxygen, I need my husband to be home. I need this to be over with."

"Perhaps you might take the children and Mrs. Norbert to our house in Cresson."

There was a pregnant silence. I pressed my ear against the door, crushing the cartilage painfully against my scalp. "How can you even suggest that?"

I heard Mr. Frick release a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry."

"I cannot even think of the place without seeing..."

"I will make inquiries into a new summer home."

"Thank you," I could hear the breaking of tears in her voice.

The floor creaked as Mr. Frick stepped toward his wife. "I am sorry, Adelaide. You know, you knew when you married me, what my ambitions were. What they might cost. I cannot lose your support, your friendship now. It is the only thing that sustains me. We need this exhibition to go well. If it were not imperative I would not go."

"But why is it so imperative? That you must miss your own daughter's birthday?"

"I am hesitant to say. I would hate to trouble you further."

"Would could possibly be worse than the imaginings my own mind could create."

There was another sigh. I heard the sound of someone falling heavily into a chair. "It is Andrew."

"Andrew? Is he ill?"

"In a manner of speaking. Though it seems I am the cause of it. He is unhappy with how the events at Homestead came to pass."

"I thought he had approved the use of Pinkertons?"

"It is not the Pinkertons that bother him but the seven dead workmen that resulted from their employ."

"I cannot believe he would hold you responsible for that. He told you to do whatever was necessary to break the strike."

"Yes, but that was under the assumption we would quickly and painlessly take the works. That I failed to do so and instead created a public spectacle... He fears the events may blacken his name forever. He is distancing himself from me."

"But he is one of our dearest friends. He has been since our honeymoon. I cannot believe... Has he said anything to that effect?"

"No, but I can feel it. I need to bring in new investors, to assure the public that all is well with H.C. Frick and Company. That way, should Andrew make a move against me..."

"You are being over-cautious dear. You were nearly killed for the sake of the company. How could he be anything but grateful for all you have done?"

There was silence. "I will write as often as I am able. Goodbye, Adelaide."

In the distance I heard a door shut. A moment later muffled sobs came from the room on the other side of the door.

I placed the cup on the table beside Millie, who, in the time it had taken me to bring the water, had fallen fast asleep. "Is she down?" Roger whispered from the doorway.

"Yes, Roger."

He strode in and took me in his arms, kissing me passionately. "You know I love to hear you say my name," he said.

I pulled back from him slightly. "You had better adjust yourself to it or risk scandalizing our hosts."

"Let them be scandalized." He kissed me again, refusing to even slightly loosen his grasp on me.

I lay my head against his chest. "So how will I know your poet when I see him?"

"You will."

"That isn't much of a description."

"He will come to you."

"Even though he is expecting you, alone?"

"He knew you were coming with me. He will understand. Do you know where the place is?"

"By the large square house at the point where the rivers meet?"

"Good. You were paying attention."

"Be safe, Roger."

He kissed me again. "Always. Besides, the good detective will be there to watch after us."

I smiled. "Or you to watch after him."

He smirked. "I will see you in a few days. Do try not to find too much trouble while I am away."

"Are you afraid I won't leave any for you?"

"Precisely." He kissed me again and a second time. "And I'd hate to have wasted the trip." He kissed me a third and fourth time.

"Roger, go or you will make Mr. Frick late."

"They won't leave without him. Let him be a little late."

"Roger!"

"I know, I'm going. Be safe, my darling." He gave one more peck and released me.

"Good bye." I said. He smirked at my clear irritation and disappeared out the door. A thought occurred to me. I rushed to the door. "I love you," I called.

"I love you too, darling," he answered as he descended the stairs and then was gone.

After the children's nap, Mrs. Frick took us for a tour of the house. Millie was most taken with her own room, to be shared with Helen. Everything from the toys to the miniature furniture, to the scale, to the birds and flowers painted upon the ceiling above enchanted her and Helen was eager to tell her every adventure the dolls and animals had undertaken and the names of her favorite ceiling birds.

I was taken by the library, myself. I could already see myself climbing through the window onto the outside landing with a book, sitting in the sun on that warm black surface whiling away the afternoon. It was not an especially large library but it held its own charm. On the wall next to the desk Mrs. Frick designated as her own (a special, modest piece designed by the architect who had done their renovations, a Mr. Osterling by name) was the framed depiction of a house as drawn by children's hands. An original by Child's Frick, himself.

We took supper in the breakfast room, our small numbers not being enough to justify the use of the cavernous dining room with its gleaming chandeliers, glass china cabinets, and brickwork fireplace that brought to mind a gigantic Italian bread oven in its design. The children were disappointed in this, particularly Childs who had enthusiastically pointed out the tooled leather panels which crowned the walls on our tour (I supposed due to their natural appearance in what was so artificial as a mansion). I imagine Millie and Helen were more disappointed because they did not have the giant table to run circles around as they had done during the tour, deaf to all scolds. Still, the meal was quite pleasant and the food excellent. I asked to speak to the cook and a rotund man of African features, introduced as Mr. Spencer Ford, was called in to the room. I gave him our compliments and requested the recipe for his pigeon pie, for it was easily the best I had ever tasted.

Millie was still worn from our travels and made no objection when it was time to put her down for bed. As Mrs. Frick and I watched the children drop off to sleep, she said, "They look just like perfect little angels, don't they?"

Gazing at the pair, tucked into their small white beds with their rosy lips and their black and blond hair surrounding their heads like the halos of Catholic art, it was easy to envision them as two tiny angels sleeping on clouds. "They truly do."

Helen stirred. Blinking, she sleepily regarded the other bed. "Sister," she mumbled, as she closed her eyes again.

"Oh!" Mrs. Frick cried, clutching her heart. "I am sorry." She rushed from the room into the loo. Even through the door I could hear her stifled cries through the clinking of glass bottles.

Mrs. Frick took to her bedroom early that evening. As the sky darkened, I heard the musical Irish tones of Mrs. Coyne calling out for Childs. I peered through the library window where I saw Mrs. Coyne standing in her dark dress at the edge of the park. A few minutes later Childs emerged from the trees with Brownie close behind, from a way I knew to be almost a sheer drop into the ravine. He must be part goat, I mused. Perhaps that was why Officer Wolfe referred to them as kids. Mrs. Coyne brushed off his back with long, careless swipes as they walked back toward the house.

Evening was now well set in the sky. The blanket of twilight hung over the last few inches of sunlight as I made my way to the train station. From there it was a simple matter of catching the train back to where we had come from and following along the river until the land ended. The walk from the station was less than half a mile, though, in the dark of the unfamiliar streets it felt much further. I saw the freight yard I had noticed on the map up ahead. Men in shirt sleeves and overalls loosed to their waists hauled crates in the billowing steam flowing from a large black engine. As I walked beyond a pungent odor assaulted my nose, like that of raw sewage. The coffee ring had centered on a squared diamond marked as Old Fort Duquesne in the middle of a poorly delineated neighborhood. Doubtless this was a landmark known to the locals.

I turned left onto the street I had read as Penn avenue on Roger's map. The name, like Fort Duquesne, had stuck in my mind for it had struck me that the name Penn was almost omnipresent in this city of belching furnaces. The filthy street was lined with factories and decrepit store fronts. A man whose face was obscured by a wide brimmed hat and unshaven face sat leaning against a brick wall with a green bottle in his hand and a shabby coat draped over his shoulders despite the warm temperatures, or was it a coat?. It looked more like a blanket of strange design. Like something one might see in a photograph of an indian. He gave me a cursory glance with his bright blue eye and returned to his bottle, taking a long swig.

I turned the corner onto Fort Street. Piles of dirt and trash littered the sidewalks, spilling over into the brick streets and collecting by the curbs. Excrement lay in the open, horse and dog and probably man. Puddles of filth pooled in the street and beside the buildings. I crinkled my nose at the tart smell of urine. A crash caused me to spin holding up my umbrella to ward off a potential attacker, but it was only a scrawny cat that had caused a rotting wooden pallet to fall from its place resting against the wall of one of the tenements. It jumped up onto the exposed sill of a window, clawing to catch its grip as pieces of the wood gave way beneath its feet. The soot blackened brick of the house chipped and crumbling, as with most of the houses on the street. Lower story windows were boarded up, some with light sifting through the chinks between the wood. Wax paper flapped from the broken glass pane of a second story window. I man and woman screamed at each other, their silhouettes visible through the wood chinks. A the end of the street, just on the other side of a road, a gleaming building of iron and glass and pale, smooth limestone towered over the tenements, great turrets with sleek spires rose to touch the dark clouds of smokey sky. Looking at the sight I felt as the rich man must have upon seeing Lazarus in heaven from his place in the pit. And though it certainly was no gulf, the road that ran between this slum and the glorious structure only just beyond it felt just as insurmountable.

A breeze sent crumpled paper swirling into the street, dancing about under the light a single street lamp that hung from above on a long, crooked pole. It seemed unnaturally quiet despite the loud carousing coming from a brightly lit pub down the street. I didn't see a square house like that the map had shown, sitting strangely catty corner amongst the other buildings. Gripping my umbrella tightly, I continued down the street. Then I saw it. Recessed away from the street and the other buildings, as out of place and out of time as an orange among apples, stood a brick structure with stone foundation with two bands of wooden gun loops, their slits serving as windows. What windows had been torn into the sides of the building were boarded up. It was not a rectangular structure, per se, though a portion of it was, the rear half extended out into a point, creating a pentagram with uneven sides. I scanned the grounds around the structure for any sign of life, but none presented itself.

"Hey girlie! Are you lost?"

I spun around to see a man who had presumably left the pub to relieve himself, given he remained in an undone state. He had a thin black mustache and though he wore a suit it was of a cheap variety. He was not ugly in form, but in composure, he was repulsive. "No sir, I'm just waiting for a friend," I said dismissively, hoping he might take the hint. I twisted the handle of my umbrella between my hands.

"So you're that kind of girl, eh? Maybe I could be your friend." He leered as he staggered toward me. He was not going to make this easy and I was far from in the mood to deal with this sort of nonsense.

"No, I don't believe so," I said, maintaining my composure, though my eyes darted to his belt and pockets. I did not see a gun, but he still might be concealing a knife.

"Aw come on, I could show you a better time than you've ever had." I sincerely doubted that. I wished he would do up his trousers. There was nothing enticing about what he was exposing to the world.

"I do ask that you leave me alone."

"Aw just be a nice girl. Give me have a little hug and a kiss and I swear I'll be on my way."

"I won't ask you again. Leave me be."

"Or what? Your friend will stop me? If he were coming he would be here by now. Wouldn't leave a girl alone in a neighborhood like this. Even a plain one like you. Now I'm going to have me that kiss." He lunged at me.

I spun away from his grasp and in an instant he was leaning back in terror, his hands up, with the tip of my sword to his throat. "I suggest you continue on your way. I am not afraid to use this if I must."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now go and don't let me see your face here again."

He turned, attempting to run off but his state of inebriation cause him to stumble and roll. He caught sight of me still holding the sword and scrambled at a crawl out of the recessed yard.

"Hopefully that will teach him not to molest strange women." I said, sheathing my sword in my umbrella shaft.

"Doubtful," a deep voice said from the shadows. A man emerged, the very same as I had seen sitting against a wall with a bottle only moments ago. He removed his hat, revealing gray hair cropped close to the scalp. His jaw was squared, his features appeared as if they had been hewn in stone. They were certainly not British, but some amalgamation of Scotch Irish and possibly German. His tanned face was deeply lined giving it a leather like quality. "Men like that never learn. That was a nice bit of swordsmanship."

I did not even bother to acknowledge the compliment. "You are late." I said.