Title: Sealed with a Kiss

Author: Stress

Summary: Layna Kotliar is a girl with a secret so big that she doesn't even know it herself. Will she be able to trust David with it or will she continue to rely on the only friend she's ever known, a simple leather-bound journal?

The translations: As you will see as the fiction begins (and continues), Layna is a French immigrant. Therefore, much of what she says is in French. When the dialogue called for it I tried to include a translation but not always. However, I will include translations at the bottom. Hopefully it will add to the experience of the story.

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VI. DRAGONFLY

Always seem to bring me down
You're like a weight in my pocket…

20 August 1899

Mon journal,

Oh mon Dieu. C'est juste idiot! Even as I sit here, scribbling away, I'm still struggling to process what exactly happened. And I'm not the only one. We all seem to have been engourdi et dans le choc. Cela ne peut pas juste être vrai.

"Wake up, everyone. Come on, wake up!" The shrill voice preceded the dark haired girl. Moments later, after thundering up the stairs, Dragonfly made a dramatic entrance, pausing at the open bunkroom door. A few of the girls who were still catching a few more winks before rising just ignored her, Secrets included. Dragonfly was usually excited over something; today, no doubt, was no different.

Iris slowly sat up in her bunk. Stretching her arms out and reached for her glasses, she put them on and pushed them up her nose. When her eyes were focused enough that she could see Dragonfly's flushed face, she tried to calm her down. "What is the matter, Dragonfly?" she asked, using a quieter voice. Maybe if she had a low tone, Dragonfly would follow her example and quiet down.

Dragonfly panted heavily as she leaned against the frame of the door, using it for support. After her extreme entry into the room, she seemed to have lost the ability to speak. She brushed her sweat-soaked hair out of her face. She had obviously run a long distance in order to be so out of breath.

Her state seemed to alert some of the other girls to her presence. Holiday poked her head out from under the thin sheet that had covered her dark head. She yawned and nodded towards the doorway. "Hey, Dragonfly, you alright?"

She nodded first, but followed it by shaking her head emphatically. "Guys, I think I need to tell you all something," she said and let herself sink down to her knees. Having an excitable personality was one thing but being the bearer of bad news was another. Her mood was much somber than one would expect from Dragonfly.

Her morning had started even earlier than many of her comrades. After waking, she had hurriedly ran down to the distribution center so that she would be first in line when the gates opened to the newsies. While she sat there, outside the building, anxious to show Race that it was she who had won their bet about who would get there first, she overheard a pair of World workers, bringing one of the newspaper carts out of the gate, discussing a certain article from the early edition. The headline: New York Child slain in Back Alley.

It was not very often that a child's murder was featured in the paper unless they were the son of some high and mighty personage but, if that was the case, the name would have been mentioned in the headline. Dragonfly found that she was curious to read the article. Just as the cart made its way past, and the second worker shut the gate behind him, she reached out and snuck one of the newspapers off the back of the cart. After it fell to the ground, she ducked low in case the cart driver had seen her. He hadn't.

Once he had turned the corner, Dragonfly straightened out and, after retrieving her spoil from the ground, began flipping through the paper looking for the article. It wasn't on the front page, but Dragonfly was not surprised. She was more surprised that it was in the newspaper at all.

The article, when she found it, was at the top of the fourth page. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't miss the large print of the headline. The block letters seemed very foreboding. Instead of intently reading through the entire article Dragonfly skimmed the piece. A few choice words and phrases leapt out at her: female… around seventeen or eighteen… long brown curls matted with blood and wide golden eyes, left open upon expiring… appeared to be a common street Arab except for a simple silver chain around her neck… robbery not a motive… stabbed seven times in the back…on the forehead of the victim was a blood red kiss mark…neither evidence nor leads at this time…

Dragonfly almost dropped the paper onto the ground. "Stress? There ain't no way," she mused and, rather than throw the paper away, she turned her eyes downward, back to the type. She forced herself, instead, to re-read the article a second time, more carefully. But, when she was done, she was even more certain. Stress was known for the silver chain she wore around her neck, a present from her dead mother. And the similarities in appearance were quite uncanny.

Dragonfly looked over to where the sun was beginning to rise. She had goosebumps on her arms and she was shaking slightly. She couldn't stay out by herself right now – she had to go back to the lodging house. The other girls had to know. Just in case.

And, still clutching the paper in her hand, Dragonfly left her post at the distribution center's gate in favor of running back towards the Bottle Alley Home.

The words of the article seemed to be burned into her memory. There in the bunkroom, while on her knees, she waved the paper around. It was still clutched in her hand though she knew she didn't need it. She remembered every sordid detail outlined within.

Rae, like the other girls, also yawned and stretched out on her bunk, but she wasn't in the mood for Dragonfly's theatrics so early in the morning. "Can't it wait until we're up and dressed and walking down to the distribution center, Dragonfly?"

Dragonfly shook her head and quickly searched the bunkroom for Stress' familiar face. It had just occurred to her that if she was still asleep in bed than there was no way that the dead girl could be her. "Hey, Rae, where's Stress?" she said, her breathing more normal but her voice slightly shaking. She wasn't sure if she wanted to hear Rae's answer. Stress' normal bunk appeared made and, considering Stress never made her bed – Mrs. Cook usually did midway through the day – the neat sight only confirmed her suspicion.

Rae followed Dragonfly's gaze and shrugged her shoulders, her long blonde plait resting on her shoulder. "I don't know," she answered, not looking upset. "Probably with Jack. Isn't that where she usually is?"

While the rest of the girls, realizing that they wouldn't get another minute of sleep if Rae was annoyed, began to get ready for the day, Iris glanced over at Holiday before interrupting Rae and Dragonfly's exchange. Holiday looked as nervous as Iris felt. "I don't think that Stress is out with Cowboy today. The two of them got into a huge stink yesterday and she said she wasn't talking to him again until he groveled at her feet," she said, sounding almost apologetically. Dragonfly was looking even worse at hearing that. "Dragonfly, what's wrong? You don't look too good,"

Dragonfly shook her head and lifted the paper to her eyes. It would sound more realistic, she knew, if she read the article out loud. "You guys, listen to this: 'A young girl was found slain in a back alley early this morning. The girl, a young girl, around seventeen or eighteen years of age, had long light brown curls matted with blood and wide golden eyes, left open upon expiring. There was no identification present. She appeared to be a common street Arab except for a simple silver chain around her neck. Considering the presence of the jewelry, and the brutal nature of the slaying, the police are assuming robbery was not a motive…'" she paused for effect. Some of the girls, still half-asleep, were looking at her strangely. Rae was now paying attention, though, as was Secrets. Iris and Holiday looked like they understood but said nothing yet. Dragonfly gestured to the paper. "There's more to the article and all but hear this: 'On the forehead of the victim was a blood red kiss mark.' That's why they put this bit of news in the paper – it's strange. And, I hate to be the one to say this, but doesn't that girl sound like it could be Stress?"

By now, most of the girls were listening to Dragonfly. At first it seemed like no one was going to respond. Finally, Gip, with a half-smile on her face, spoke. "That must be some other kid," she scoffed disbelievingly. "I mean, Stress can't be dead."

Dragonfly pointed back at the paper. "They said that the girl was wearing a silver chain. Are you telling me that Stress never told you the story about that thing a million times? If so, you were one of the lucky ones"

Rae nodded. Everyone had heard the story of Stress' chain; it had been her favorite possession. Rae's blue eyes darted back to where Stress normally would have slept. She no longer looked annoyed; instead, she looked fearful. "Dragonfly's right," she added, sounding apologetic. Maybe she shouldn't have snapped at Dragonfly earlier.

Tunes looked around at all the other girls, surprise written in her green eyes. "Listen to all of you. When we finish deciding whether or not Stress has been killed…" she said, angrily. She took a deep breath and tried again. "I mean, why don't we got out and look for her. I'm sure that she is fine."

Most of the girls nodded their heads at Tunes' logic. Without saying a word more, they proceeded to get themselves ready for the day. The silence that accompanied their morning washing was eerie and unprecedented.

When it was time to leave the Home, and it was still so early that Mrs. Cook hadn't even gone upstairs to check on them all yet, there were only two girls who remained in the bunkroom: Dragonfly and Secrets. Dragonfly, no longer on the floor, had moved herself to her bunk. Despite the hopeful tone that Tunes had managed to muster, Dragonfly was certain that the dead girl was Stress. Secrets, on the other hand, was preoccupied by a different fact all together. She had been documenting the conversation – due to Dragonfly and Rae's brief argument, none noticed Secrets drawing out her journal – but paused when she had heard the mention of the mark.

"Hey, Dragonfly? When you mentioned the kiss mark on that girl's head, what did you mean?" she asked, still on her bunk. She couldn't find the strength to move from that spot just yet.

Dragonfly looked up from her place at the edge of her bed and let her eyes fall on Secrets. She hadn't realized that she had remained behind. Shrugging her shoulders, Dragonfly rose from her bunk. As she passed Secrets on her way out of the room, she tossed the crumpled newspaper over to Secrets. "It's just something the paper had in it," she said, uneasily, narrowing her eyes at Secrets pale expression. Why was Secrets focused on the killer's perverse way of kissing the victim goodbye when it could, very well, be Stress who was that victim? It was something she was trying not to remember. With a slight wave, she headed out of the bunkroom. She kept her eyes on Secrets until she reached the stairs and had to turn around to make it down safely.

Secrets avoided Dragonfly's concerned gaze as she exited the room, backwards. She caught the paper easily and lifted it so that she could read the type:

…and what makes this murder more curious than the others in the past few weeks was the murderer's signature. On the forehead of the victim was a blood red kiss mark. Upon closer inspection, the police were able to discern that it was done, in fact, with the victim's own blood…

The words, simple words with simple meanings, triggered a memory long suppressed. Blackness enveloped her and she let the paper slip out of her grasp. As the paper landed softly beside her on her bunk, a searing pain forced Secrets back down. She was remembering…

It was the day after she had received word of Nicolas' death. Layna was dwelling outside of Madame Pearson's office, her head down on her lap. To the average bystander she looked to be grieving the loss of her only friend. But she wasn't; she was eavesdropping.

Madame Pearson was not the only person in her office. Earlier that evening Layna had spied Sergeant Murphy being led inside. It was he who was speaking to her now.

"But, Sergeant, what makes your people think that one of my girls killed poor Nicolas?"

Layna began to tremble as she heard Officer Murphy sigh before speaking. He must have been choosing his words carefully because, when she heard him, he sounded rehearsed. "Ma'am, when I told you earlier that the boy was stabbed, I was telling you the truth. However, what I neglected to mention was that it was a brutal crime: he was stabbed seven times, directly in his back." Layna heard the orphanage matron take in a deep breath and realized that maybe it would have been better if Sergeant Murphy kept that fact neglected forever. But he was not done. "Unfortunately, ma'am, that's not all. When the boy was turned over, for he was found face-down, there was a blemish on his forehead. It was discovered to be a child-sized kiss mark."

When Madame Pearson spoke again Layna could hear the upset in her voice – or, better yet, the lack of emotion that indicated how upset she truly was. "Yes, that is quite strange," she replied, hollowly.

But, again, Sergeant was not done. "That's not the worst of it, ma'am. Initially, my men assumed that the mark was done in lipstick. However, after closer scrutiny, we have concluded that the mark was made from the his spilt blood."

Layna grimaced at the thought. "C'est horrible," she murmured to herself, disgusted. Yet she could not move herself from the spot.

There was another pause before Madame Pearson spoke again. "Do you have any suspects, Sergeant?" Despite the severity of the revelation, Layna could hear that her curious nature was beginning to stir.

Though she couldn't actually see him, Layna knew that Sergeant Murphy was shaking his head. "Sorry, ma'am, but no. The only idea we might have is if he had any enemies here at the orphanage. There was no sign of a struggle so we can only assume that the murderer somehow knew the victim."

Another pause and then a disappointed answer. "Oh, I see."

"Well, I'll let you know if we find anything out, as I'm sure you will do the same for the police." There was a brief sound of moving furniture. The sergeant must have risen from his seat.

Another rustle. Madame Pearson was walking out with him. "Oh, definitely. If I hear any word of a connection to Nicolas' death, I'll be sure to let you know."

Layna heard the rustling and quickly jumped up and escaped to her room. You got two weeks indoor punishment if you were caught snooping around the headmistress' office.

"Secrets? Are you awake?"

Secrets slowly opened her eyes as the remnants of her unconsciousness faded with every second that passed. It took her a moment to realize where she was and who was calling her. The voice was deep and, though she remembered she had never left the Home that morning, she knew it wasn't one of the girls. "David?" she asked, focusing on his concerned expression.

"Secrets, are you alright?" he said in way of a response. He was crouching down so that he could see into her bunk. His arm was outstretched and she wondered if his touch had caused her to awaken. She nodded slowly, rubbing her head slowly. One hell of a headache was growing. "Yeah, I'm fine. I had a bit of a headache so I thought I would sleep a little later than normal. I'll just make it up with the evening post."

David nodded as he stood up but she could see that his thoughts were elsewhere. As soon as she had affirmed that she was alright, his blue eyes adopted a glazed expression. "That's good," he said absently, waiting for her to rise from her bunk. She had changed into fresh clothes the night before – she had spilled something on her other white blouse – so she was decent. But, regardless, she had been under the impression that boys were never allowed in the upper levels of the Home. Mrs. Cook was very particular about that rule. She glanced up at him. "David, does Mrs. Cook know you're up here?"

He nodded again, sadly this time. She couldn't miss the emotion. "Mrs. Cook isn't here right now," he said and, before Secrets could question his statement, he continued. "She went down with Jack to the City Morgue. They wanted to see…"

Secrets had forgotten all about Dragonfly and the article she had brought with her back to the Home. After her most recent spell, Nicolas and his murder were still fresh on her mind. "Wanted to see what?"

"There was an article in the newspaper," David began, and she could see that he was uncomfortable in telling her this. Or maybe it wasn't discomfort but grief that kept him from speaking. "A girl from the area was found murdered this morning, a few blocks away. The Coroner wanted Mrs. Cook, as proprietor of the closes all-girl Home in the neighborhood, to come check it out. Jack – well, he had stopped by here early to talk to Stress and, after talking to some of the others about what that article contained, wanted to go, too. He went with Mrs. Cook."

From the tone of his voice, Secrets knew there had to be more to the story than that. "And?"

He sighed and, at once, she knew she was right. "The girl – she was Stress. Secrets, Stress is dead."

And, oui. It was Stress. Pauvre Jack had to go downtown and see if the girl was one of the kids from the area, considering she was found so close. Je ne peux pas imaginer what it would be like to identify the body of the person you loved the most. There's always espoir. I didn't have espoir when my parents were killed, but I feel for him. Pauvre Jack.

She didn't know what to say right away. She was torn between feeling horrible guilt for being upset at the girl yesterday, and feeling sympathy for Jack. And he had been the one to identify her, too. "Oh, David, I don't know what to say." She approached him and, slowly, placed her arms around him. It was a gesture of support but, as if was the closest she had allowed herself to get to him, it was a gesture of love as well.

David, just as slowly, placed his arms around her. Tears came to his eyes but he did not allow them to fall. There would be a time for tears but for now – for now, Jack needed him to be strong. And he would be. "Me, too, Secrets," he replied, speaking into her hair. "She was one of my closest friends. I don't know what I'm going to do without her."

Secrets tensed at his words. The twinge of jealousy she had experienced the day before came back almost at once. Before she could stop herself, she found that three words had slipped from her tongue. "Just a friend?"

David let go of her immediately, drawing himself back so quickly it was like he had been slapped. "I just found out that Stress was murdered and you say something like that to me? Do you want to know the truth, Secrets? Do you want to know if I loved her? Yes. I did. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

A tense silence followed and she lowered her arms to her side. She kept her eyes focused on anything but David's hurt expression. She was the one who had caused it. "Je suis désolé," she whispered, finally.

David ran a hand through his curly brown hair and took a step forward, a step closer to her. "No, Secrets. I'm the one who should be sorry – I shouldn't take my anger out on you. It's not like you hurt Stress like that."

She nodded, but took a step back. She was afraid of touching him again.

David took the hint and stopped. "Well," he said, and she could hear the strain in his voice, "I have to head over to the Lodging House. I want to talk to Jack."

"Do you want me to come?" she asked, her voice still as low.

He shook his head and she didn't blame him at all. "No, it's probably better if you stay here. I keep forgetting that you've only been here a few days but you haven't had the chance to see an angry Jack. We'll have to save that for later."

"Yeah, later," she echoed and sat back down on her bunk.

David looked down at her sadly before forcing a smile. "I'll come back tomorrow, alright?"

She nodded and then watched as he bowed his head, stuck his hands in his pockets, and headed back out of the bunkroom. Secrets, once she was alone, laid back down on her bunk, staring up at the bottom of the bed above her. How different one day can make.

She was not sure how much time passed between his quick visit and when she finally shook herself out of her reverie but, when Secrets finally sat back up, the first thing she did was reach for her journal. She might as well use the unusual quiet to finish writing down her thoughts.

But, underneath her earlier scribbles, was a succinct message, written in that familiar childish scrawl.

Mon cher,

Il n'était rien

Kisses

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Translations:

Oh mon Dieu. C'est juste idiot! – Oh my God. This is just crazy!
Cela ne peut pas juste être vrai – It just can't be true
Engourdi et dans le choc – Made numb and in shock
C'est horrible – That's horrible
Je ne peux pas imaginer – I just can't imagine
Espoir – Hope
Je suis désolé – I'm sorry.
Il n'était rien – It was nothing