Chapter Two, part three

Twelve years earlier

New York City

A boom—loud enough to rattle the windows—jolted nine-year-old Violet awake. She pulled her head under the covers, her heart pounding so fast it was hard to catch her breath. Was it thunder? A wagon overturning? The sky outside was dark, as dark as the night sky over the city ever got. Maybe someone had banged on the apartment door? A collage of things that frightened her—fire, robbers, runaway horses—blended in her sleepy mind, all threatening to burst into the apartment. With a sniffle, she jumped out of bed and crept to the front room.

Her first thought was of her father. Papa could protect her from robbers—he would know what to do if someone was banging on the door. There he was, stretched out on the divan, one arm hanging down toward the floor, the other flopped across his face. She stepped around cocktail glasses and a spilled bottle champagne and tried to shake him awake. He didn’t budge. Lifting his top arm, she flopped its heavy weight onto her back, wanting to feel protected underneath it. But the arm slumped back to his side.

She stood over him, her hands on his chest, trying to take comfort from his warmth. “Papa,” she said, nudging him, jostling him. He didn’t respond, didn’t even flinch—it was like a shell of him lying there. Violet breathed through her nose, trying not to cry. She would have to try Mother.

Mother was sprawled, face down, across her bed. And empty wine bottle sat on the bedside table, and it smelled like someone had been sick somewhere in the room. Violet climbed onto the bed beside her mother and wriggled up against her, trying to get a cuddle without having to ask for it. It was cold in the room, even lying as close as they were, so she got up again to pull the bedspread over them, resettling herself beside her mother. That was better. She was here, she was safe.

But Mother stirred. The commotion with the bedspread had been too much, and now she was half awake, rolling onto her side, away from Violet.

Mother gave her a shove. “Go away,” she growled.

Violet tried lying perfectly still, but she got another shove.

“Go away.”

Violet sniffled again, her face crumpling. But now Mother was pushing with her feet, and Violet was sliding off the foot of the bed. Wiping her tears, she got up as Mother tugged the bedspread closer around herself, a wall of armor.
Shoulders trembling, Violet trudged back to her own bedroom. Sadie, her four-year-old sister, was a damp ball of slumber, twisted sideways in her bed, half her limbs uncovered. Violet climbed in beside her, straightening out the blankets so they were both underneath. Sadie, even in sleep, curled toward her sister and burrowed close. One arm snaked around Violet’s waist. Violet breathed in the milky scent of Sadie’s hair and closed her eyes.

“Everything’s all right,” she whispered to her sleeping sister. “Don’t worry, Sadie. There’s nothing to be scared of. Everything’s fine.”

Sadie breathed softly. Violet’s ribs relaxed and her body released its grip until she, too, fell asleep.