April, 1904

Brooklyn, New York

"And how's our loveliest Ladybird, then? Back in fightin' shape I hope."

Kate felt her eyes sluggishly drift to her left, jolted a bit by the familiar voice that sounded just above her head. She blinked several times—an attempt to clear the fog from both her vision and skull—her gaze finally registering a kind smile, and two bright, heterochrome irises directed affectionately toward her.

"Shakespeare Lindy," she murmured, her voice hoarse from disuse and full of surprise.

She attempted a smile in kind, clearing her throat and taking a quick sip from the whiskey glass she barely felt cooling her numb fingers, remembering herself. She was at Sonny's—a favorite frequent of hers and Spot's—flanked by friends and acquaintances on all sides. Many of whom she had not seen in months, certainly not since the previous February or March, before—

Her face blanched at the realization of her dramatic absence over the last year, the reasoning behind it making bile haphazardly fill her throat. God, how very stark a contrast it was, too. The last time she'd been out like this, everything—absolutely everything—had been different in some way.

She supposed because she had been so different herself.

Her casual push and pull with Spot, the carefree air she had been able to easily maintain for days at a time. Undeterred by almost anything. The unquestioning affection from her peers and friends.

Sunshine.

An intense pang of sadness hit her chest unexpectedly, causing her to shudder and quickly gulp a large mouthful of whiskey, her eyes reaffirming Shakespeare's presence in front of her. An attempt to grasp at the reality around her, hold tightly to the present. What was lately an ever-fading prospect.

His gaze squinted momentarily, a flash of concern passing through his features.

But Kate, as always, was quicker. "Is that any way to look at a fellow maven and scholar, Lindy? I expect only awe and adoration from the likes of you."

Her bright quip seemed to settle his hesitancy, his one brown eye winking at her before he muttered, "If these shadows have offended, Ladybird. I swear it won't happen again."

Kate chuckled softly at his quote, rolling her eyes, and replying, "You would favor Puck."

"Of course, he would."

Kate felt a small wave of relief pass over her body at the sound of Spot's voice behind her—a feeling only his presence seemed capable of evoking as of late. Her free hand, though numb, blindly reached for him, needing to feel the tangible safety of his body against hers in some way. And thankfully, his palm was at the ready, gently pressing into her skin, fingers securely locking against her own.

His other arm was quick to wrap around her waist following a genial handshake with Shakespeare, warm lips pressing comfortingly into her temple.

"Though my lady revolution here is nothin' like Juliet," Spot continued warmly.

Kate looked over at him, his blue eyes easily meeting her challenging gaze. She quirked her eyebrow as a coy smile touched her lips. "Then pray tell—who do I remind you of?"

"That's a lit fuse, Conlon. Proceed carefully," Shakespeare laughed, patting Spot on the back and shooting Kate another affectionate smile before turning toward the bar. "Good to have you back, Ladybird."

Kate watched the older boy—more of a man now than when she had first met him—walk off. Her thoughts muddled again as she wondered what she now looked like to him—to all of them.

"Your hand is fuckin' freezing. Do you feel alright?"

Kate sighed, shooting a glance toward Spot in warning. "You promised you wouldn't fret over me, Tom. And you've avoided answering my question. Don't think I didn't notice."

He chuckled, shooting her a smirk. "I ain't frettin', I'm checkin'. And Lindy was right—that question's a guaranteed fire starter. So, I'll respectfully pass."

"Coward," she muttered wryly with a small smile. "I'd have accepted any famed warrior or villain you could think of."

"Not surprised," he quipped back, placing another gentle kiss to her cheek. "The villains are always more fun, anyway."

She felt him pulse her hand before releasing her, saying, "I won't hover though if you don't want. I know how you needta take things at your own speed. 'Sides, Grim said he's keen for a chat since I ain't seen him in a while."

"Of course," Kate quickly supplied, feeling a tinge of guilt as she immediately surmised the obvious reason Spot had been remiss in keeping up with his friends as of late.

"I'll be over there with him. Feel free to come join whenever you want," he said with an affectionate grin. "He misses you too."

Kate nodded, taking another sip of her drink. But just as Spot turned toward the blonde-haired man sitting in a booth on the other side of the room, Kate felt herself saying, "Wait, Spot."

His bright eyes flashed quickly back toward her, the smallest apprehension swirling within their depths. He looked expectantly at her, seeming to note the shudder that unintentionally wracked her body. She pursed her lips for a moment, shaking her head to finally allow words to form from the worry on her chest.

"Do—does anyone here know? About…..what happened? Where I've been? Did you say anything?"

Sadness reflected back at her as Spot gently closed the space between them again. His hands tenderly cupped her face, tilting her avoidant eyes back to his steady gaze.

"Hey, look at me. You don't have to worry about any a that shit here, okay? I haven't said anything specific, anyway—just that you've been through some dark times. Besides, you gotta remember….I'm not savvy on a lot of the details either, Kate."

He paused for a moment, giving her a quick meaningful look before adding, "So they know some of the stuff I've seen. Most know you went missin', but I wanted to leave the rest…..whatever else you wanted to say…for you to share. With any of us, when you're ready."

Kate nodded slowly, fighting against the tears pricking at her gaze. "Okay. I just…..wasn't sure."

His thumbs innately wiped the wetness from her lashes before the tears even had a chance to fall, his lips grazing against hers as he whispered, "None of it, not one thing, changes how I feel. Most likely none of the rest a' these bums either. Alright? It don't change who you are, Kate."

She stared silently into his eyes, searching for any shred of dishonesty—any tinge that he could have the least bit of doubt in his own statements. Because the thing that rang truest to her was that there were plenty of details still left to the wind. Details that she'd barely been able to think about, let alone say aloud. And she still wasn't sure what type of fallout would result following all the horrible happenings finally coming to light.

But catching Spot's increasingly concerned stare, she finally nodded—as satisfied as she could be. "I guess I'll take your word for it."

"As you should."

She huffed a soft laugh, inhaling sharply when he suddenly bent down, probing her lips with his own. And for a moment—just a moment—she allowed herself to fall headfirst into the thrill of his mouth on hers, the play for control that their bodies naturally synced into.

God in heaven, the way one instant of his embrace could almost erase the lifetime of emptiness that seemed inherent in her very bones.

Almost.

And with a whispered "I love you" and corresponding smile, he was off, leaving her feeling somewhat steadier but still cautious.

"Marianne—vive la revolution, no?"

Kate turned with a bright smile, her eyes happily taking in the tall form of Marquette before widening in pleasant surprise toward his wife, Camille who offered her a loving look in kind.

"Bonjour, mes amis," Kate responded, somewhat warmed by Marquette's use of an old nickname from what seemed like another time entirely. "Pas le temps de la revolution, j'ai peur."

Kate was pleased that she remembered some phrases in French—though most were related to thoughts, actions, and events surrounding the call to revolution and equality. She was pretty sure that's all Marquette had taught her when she had been keen on learning another language in years past.

Camille's eyes took in Kate's form quickly, a flash of worry reflecting within her dark gaze. She turned to her husband, murmuring something quickly in French, her hand motioning toward Kate. Marquette caught Kate's confused gaze, offering a kind smile.

"Camille is feeling worry…..over your eating."

Kate narrowed her gaze, looking between the two of them. "My eating?"

Camille nodded, saying more in French to Marquette who responded shortly in kind. He turned back to Kate, adding, "You are too thin, Marianne. That is what she means."

"Oh," Kate replied, somewhat taken aback by the commentary. "I…I'm eating fine. Enough."

But the green-eyed girl couldn't help but wince as the lie left her lips, knowing damn-well the struggle she'd had for months over food. The disgust as it touched her lips, the feeling of nausea as she went to swallow it down. She'd vomited more bites than she'd successfully consumed. And she and Spot regularly had discussions—most frequently leading to fights—about her unwillingness to even try at times.

Marquette quietly communicated some variation of what Kate had said back to his petite wife. But her eyes again snapped to Kate as she shook her head. "No, vous devez manger plus."

He turned to Kate, starting, "She says—"

"Eat more?" Kate finished, picking up on the few words she knew as well as the context. "You can tell her Spot's already very vocal about that. He makes sure I don't go without a meal."

He smiled nodding and quickly translated, finally securing a satisfied nod from Camille as well. She reached out for Kate's free hand, pulsing it within her small grip. "He—Conlon—loves you well. Aucun de nous ne t'abandonnera, mon amour."

Kate's eyes searched Camille's kind gaze, as Marquette translated. "You will not be abandoned, Marianne. We are with you."

"Merci," Kate said in a quiet voice, feeling her throat thicken in emotion, a wetness glazing over her eyes.

Camille squeezed Kate's hand once more, then said something quickly to Marquette who patted Kate's shoulder as the two began walking toward the bar, shooting a quick, "We'll talk later, yes? Must plan a fitting Bastille Day celebration."

Kate chuckled. "Of course. La révolution ne meurt jamais."

"Chapeau, Marianne!"

With a half-hearted chuckle and sigh, she quickly swallowed the remains of her own drink, heading toward the bar herself. These public events—as benign as they were, as safe as Spot made sure she felt—always had her craving some type of detachment. Reprieve. A way for her to further arm her senses in some way. And alcohol—though lackluster compared to other highs—would have to suffice yet again.

It was times like these that she cursed her ability to hold her liquor so effectively. Drinking could be such an expensive pastime—and such a volatile, unreliable escape.

Better than that fucking opium, Sunshine.

"Mother of God," Kate murmured to herself as the sweet voice pulsed within her head for a second time.

She quickly put down enough money for two shots of whiskey and a pint, quietly ordering the same. And upon looking around to see no familiar faces staring in her direction, she downed both shots without blinking, picking up her pint and thanking the bartender, who widened his eyes in surprise but nodded nonetheless.

Feeling somewhat more detached from her thoughts, Kate meandered toward a darker corner of the room, attempting to sort through how to best endure the rest of the evening. How long she'd need to maintain her socially acceptable stature. She hesitated to call it a night, knowing Spot would insist on going home with her. Knowing she'd be unable to convince him to stay and enjoy himself without her. All of which was so unfair to him.

After all, shouldn't he be allowed some merriment—some release—for a night without her subverting it in some way?

She nodded to herself, taking a sip of her pint. She could make her way through this—keep herself engaged and together—for him. And if she needed a break, there had to be legitimate ways to find reprieve.

Or not so legitimate ways that would overall be harmless.

Perhaps stealing a bottle of something from the bar to then drink by herself in the toilet. That was not so far beyond the bounds of reason, was it? She'd done it too many times to count in all the years before.

You know I hate when you do that, Katherine. Seclude yourself away, drown in all that unnecessary misery. Why do you insist on methods of destruction, my love?

Kate clenched her eyes shut, groaning softly at the intermittent voice passing through her head, irked more by the realization that the eerie statements were nothing but the truth. She too hated that her natural inclination seemed to forever err toward dysfunction and solitude.

But it had seemed to reach even higher extremes following her time away in October.

She grimaced at the thought—the idea of condensing the utter hell of those eleven days into a phrase like "time away". As if the culminating explosion of months of abuse and threats was some sort of break.

"Mashallah, planning mischief here by yourself?"

Kate shook her head, reentering the present with a sharp inhale, her eyes focusing on the tall, dark-haired man before her.

"Don't need to be by myself to do that," she said with a chuckle and a smirk. "You've been well, I hope, Rails?"

The older boy's eyes glowed somewhat in the dimness surrounding them as he smiled and nodded. "And you? It's been quite some time since I've seen the two famed Brooklyn sirens running around, stirring up the best kind of trouble."

And before Kate could consciously register the reference, her body was already buckling in response. She felt the breath suddenly leave her lungs, the room spinning about her in a sickening way. There was no chance for her to gather herself—brace for the shock of what had been said. But she knew Rails would have no way of understanding the pain those words caused. She could hear him quickly move on—saying something else as she vaguely noted his bright eyes swimming in the rising chaos surrounding her. But the blow had already been dealt, the world shaken irreversibly around her—though unknowingly so.

If he noticed her sudden, sharp change in temperament, he luckily did not mention it or appear concerned. She felt him pat her gently on the shoulder, a statement of, "Oh, I see, River's got me a pint…speak soon, ya helweh." as she managed a numb nod, feeling a familiar nausea filling her gut as he walked off. And before she could process anything further, the bile rose alarmingly quickly in her throat.

She was going to vomit.

With astounding speed and coordination—perhaps because this pub had once been like a second home years prior—she made a move to the back of the space, depositing her glass on a table along the way. Her eyes searched for the familiar hallway entrance to the toilets. And luckily, she managed to just make her way inside one of the stalls before retching forcefully into the bowl below her.

Her head pounded as she gripped the side of the toilet, another wave of vomiting overtaking her. And after several more moments of attempting to settle her gagging, she fell back on her bottom her body shaking and sweaty from the force of her sickness.

She had to get herself together. She couldn't be doing this right now, not amid all these people. These friends that thought they knew her so well, kindly assuming that she was still capable of being the same girl from a year ago.

Of course, this farce would only last for so long. Kate had never been foolish enough to think that the truth—as horrific and sickening as it was—would remain buried forever. All she was hoping for was just a little while longer—a little more time.

Then maybe…maybe she could finally figure out a way to say everything out loud. A way to exist in this new, terrifyingly lonely world she had created for herself.

If she was still meant to exist in it at all.

Tell them what he did to me, sunshine—what he did to both of us. Tell them what he'll do if you tell any of his secrets now.

"No one will understand, Julia," Kate whispered through quivering lips, fighting against tears as she wiped the sweat off her face and pushed the wild curls out of her vision.

But that had to be a rabbit hole for another time. Another night's worries, another day's fears.

So, shaking the thoughts from her head, she blinked rapidly and took several deep breaths. Then, once she felt steady enough, she pulled herself up and brushed off her clothes, sighing quickly before she was out the door.

The darkened back hallway allowed Kate a few extra moments to catch her breath. To settle her frazzled nerves and clenching stomach. She could do this—she could hold on for a while longer. She had survived so many things—so many awful, earth-shattering events in her life. So, she could compact this too.

At least until she figured out how the fuck to exist again.

But just as she was about to gather enough wherewithal to make her way back into the fray, she heard a voice that made her heart clench and her stomach sink to an abysmally new low.

"Christ, Moore. You used to be able to hold your liquor a helluva lot better than that."

Her body felt frozen as Muggs Tracey's comment sounded behind her. If it had been anyone else—anyone other than him, she would have easily delivered a quick comeback, feigning a laugh. She could have swiftly steeled herself against the ever-present sickness in her gut, pretending the past year had never even happened. That she still had some kind of soul intact within her ever-thinning body.

But not with him.

Kate turned slowly to face the tall muscular man, her eyes apprehensive as she looked him over. She first studied his stance—the way he leaned against the wall behind him, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, long fingers tapping somewhat manically upon them. Next, her wide eyes scanned his face, his green gaze looking steadily back toward her, nearly unreadable.

Except for the way they grew darker the longer he stared.

"You look like shit," he commented stoically after several moments, his eyes doing several once overs of her form.

"Yeah. I feel like shit too," was the only thing that hoarsely came out of her mouth in response.

Because what was the point of mincing words? Bullshitting an even bigger bullshitter than herself? The fact that he hadn't chosen to coat any of his comments in either sarcasm or disdain thus far was in itself, a sign.

Truly, the instant he had opened his mouth, she had known exactly why he was there—waiting outside the bathroom door for her. As if she could read the very thoughts going through his head. As if she could predict the next question he was fighting like hell not to ask. And in that moment, she knew there was no use hiding anymore—not from the likes of Muggs Tracey.

Not when he deserved so much more.

The minute she and Julia Hawthorne had disappeared into thin air a year ago, they had made sure to cut ties where they could—pushed everyone they cared for as far away as possible. Feigned indifference if necessary.

They had attempted to protect those they loved with whatever means was available to them.

And Muggs Tracey—boorish, bitter, self-destructive Muggs Tracey, had been Julia's most painful end to tie off. It had been a decision that had left Julia utterly shattered, a shell of her former self. But it had been a necessity, one that required he think nothing more for or about her.

Because Julia would have rather died than see any harm befall someone she had come to love so well.

And if Kate had to guess, beyond whatever posturing and dysfunctional pushback Muggs so frequently leaned on for protection, he had been crushed in the aftermath of that decision too. In so many different, undeserving ways.

He sniffed uncomfortably and dropped his gaze from hers, stating stiffly, "You look like you could use some air."

All she did was nod, watching his eyes flash toward her meaningfully before he turned to walk down the hallway. And after several moments, her feet—as if pulled by some otherworldly force—followed slowly behind him, allowing him to lead the way out the back entrance.

She could have ignored his prompt—could have walked back into the barroom. Perhaps bid goodnight to those around her and gone home.

She could have made a few quips about the weather and ended the interaction just the same. Or simply pretended he wasn't there and moved on to the brighter side of the threshold. But the feeling in her gut was so innate, so undeniable, that she knew his presence in that moment was no accident.

And Julia had loved him too well for her to ignore that kind of sign.

He didn't force her to take the four hits from the pipe he packed and lit outside the building.

She asked to.

He didn't say a word as the strange dream-like haze slowly filled her vision, taking her through years and years of disturbingly tangible feelings and memories.

Flashes of moments passed in front of her as she languidly shook her head. The bonfires at the river front burned brightly before her, a familiar pair of delicate hands pulling her up to dance as Leonora and her family clapped along to the guitar music.

A kiss to her cheek, a whisper in her ear, "You're a terrible dancer, sunshine. Hopefully it's just the wine's fault," followed by shared laughter and a sisterly embrace.

The cigarettes shared in the tiny tenement bathroom as they soaked their feet together, only in petticoats and chemises. Enough tears and laughs imparted to fill three lifetimes with love and grief.

And finally, the very beginning of it all. Stormy nights in the dark storeroom of her parents' pharmacy—two young girls lying next to each other, holding hands, and whispering words of comfort in shaky voices.

Promises that the pain would stop. That they would find a way out of their two separate hells. By any means necessary. Together.

"She didn't leave you," Kate heard herself murmur, unprompted, with an ease she was not expecting. "She wasn't engaged. She was—she was trapped."

Her unsteady gaze found his, several tears dripping unbidden onto her cheeks. She watched as his eyes narrowed suspiciously, a guardedness and pain dancing amidst his dilated pupils.

"The hell is wrong with you? What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"Julia," Kate whispered, the world continuing to melt slowly around her. "She didn't want to—to leave you. She wanted you—to be with you. But she couldn't stay….couldn't let him know. It was too late. She was trapped."

Muggs' voice sounded far away when Kate heard him harshly demand, "What the fuck do you mean Julia was trapped? Trapped where? You ain't makin' any goddamn sense, Moore."

Her perceptions of noises and colors, time and space, began to muddle even further together, her brain barely noting her unstable gait and the way Muggs' large hands grasped her upper arms, attempting to bring her back down to Earth. "Moore…where? Were you there too….how did you….how….are you even…dammit, Moore….look at me….what do you mean…Julia…who's with…..where's…..what happened…..Julia…."

Kate could feel herself spinning, could hear John's voice in the distance, Julia's pleading cries. A warning of the coming storm. She knew there was so much more she needed to say, to tell the man fading into the background before her.

But all she managed to force into the creeping void was a mumbled series of phrases.

"He had us….both of us trapped…both of us. But….she's not here or…on the docks….she's not anywhere…..she's gone. He's here….."

Kate couldn't make out the jumbled words Muggs was saying—other voices and feelings overpowering every one of her senses—pushing her to anxiously blurt out a confession she hadn't wanted to admit, even to herself.

"It was my fault…..all my fault…..and she's….she's gone. I'm so sorry, Matthew….so sorry…."