He swallowed, and looked down at the telegram. “It’s for Anna Smithfield,” he said, his own voice thin in his ears. “Is that you?”
“No,” the woman said. “No, I’m not Anna Smithfield.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. It must’ve . . .” He felt faint. His skin was crawling; he wanted to scream. Don’t turn around. “It must be a mistake. I’ll check with the desk. Sorry to bother you.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “And thank you, for your help. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
He stared at her.
“Before, when I—”
“Oh. That’s all right. Do you need any—”
“No. Thank you, but no.”
He took a breath, let it out. The door was to his left. He would have to turn around, a little, to leave.
He turned.
There was nothing there. A hotel room, an open window, curtains that waved in a breeze. He went to the door, grasped the knob, opened it. The woman’s eyes tracked his every move.
“Good night,” she said.
“Good night,” said Toby.
He closed the door behind himself, and ran like hell for the stairs.
* * *
The girls’ Hebrew classes at the Asylum were taught by Miss Pearl and Miss Franck, a pair of young women so alike in both appearance and temperament that even Miss Levy had difficulty telling them apart. She found them in the teachers’ lounge, discussing their lesson plans over coffee. “I was wondering,” she said, “about Kreindel Altschul.”
The women winced as one. “Did she cause a disruption?” asked Miss Pearl.
“Not as such. But I was . . . surprised by her vehemence.”
“I’m afraid it’s our fault you’ve been stuck with her,” said Miss Franck, her tone rueful. “She’s a brilliant girl, but one of the most stubborn I’ve ever met. I wish she’d taken to the new curriculum—she simply refused to adjust. She even called it blasphemy, if you can believe it!”
“Her upbringing was rather strict. She’s a true orphan, you know,” said Miss Pearl, as though this fact explained much—and perhaps it did. “No mother since birth, and her father died when she was eight. He was a rabbi, and very traditional, from what we understand.”
“Then she was eight, when she came here?” said Miss Levy.
“Yes, which was far too old, of course. But the state insisted, and there was little to be done.”
“Does she have plans, for after the Asylum?”
They both shook their heads. Miss Franck said, “We suggested college, but she wouldn’t hear of it. If I had to guess, I’d say she’ll probably end up on the Lower East Side again.”
“Such a shame,” Miss Pearl said with a sigh. “She could be an incredible scholar. I think she wants to be—but she just won’t let herself.”
Wryly Miss Franck said, “For that to happen, she’d have to move on from her father’s way of thinking.”
Miss Levy thanked them and left, stopping first at the office, where the key for the large-item repository was waiting for her. She pocketed it, wondering idly when she might fit the task into her schedule, and made her way home.
In her apartment, she drew her bath and undressed, unclasped the locket and laid it upon its shelf. She sank beneath the surface and closed her eyes, breathed the water in and out.
Kreindel had taken her by surprise, that was all. The girl was angry; she felt that something she loved had been stolen from her. It was only natural that she considered Culinary Science a punishment of some kind. But slowly, Charlotte would win her over.
She doesn’t want to be won over.
She frowned. The thought had arrived in a voice not her own.
Chava, you cannot control others for your own comfort.
That’s not my name, she told him.
He snorted. He was standing at the edge of the Amherst rooftop, snow blowing around him like dust.
I don’t want to control anyone, she said. I only want—
To help them. Yes, I know. And if she refuses your help?
Then we will simply endure each other, for as long as we must.
And what about the next girl who refuses your help? And the one after that?
Stop it, Ahmad.
Or what? He climbed the small ledge and stood facing her, his back to the alley.
Go ahead, she told him. It’s what you wanted.
And you’re certain of that?
She paused. No. I could never be certain, with you.
He smiled, and began to rock back and forth on his heels. The motion sent a strange vertigo through her, as though she herself were about to fall. Don’t do that, she said.
You can’t change those who don’t want you to, he told her, tipping ever farther.
Ahmad, don’t!
Come and get me, he said—and he closed his eyes, and went over.
She surfaced, spitting bathwater.
The room was spinning—no, it was merely the water, sloshing around her. She gripped the rim of the tub until the water stilled, then climbed out carefully and dried herself.
The locket gleamed upon the shelf, condensation beading its surface.
She picked it up and stared at it, wishing for a moment she could throw it out the window—but then fastened it about her neck as usual. She donned her housecoat, made her evening cup of tea, set it upon her desk, readied her work for the evening. Today had been an aberration. Tomorrow she’d be better prepared.
* * *
“He noticed something, the poor boy. But I suppose it can’t be helped. Thank you, in any case. For not . . . appearing.”
Sophia was on the settee braiding her hair, the blanket still wrapped around her. The jinniyeh watched from a corner and wondered why the woman still bothered with the braids, knowing the jinniyeh was immune to steel. Perhaps the defense had merely grown into habit.
Sophia said, “Dima, would you bring me my hairpins? They’re in my valise, in a silver case.”
The jinniyeh turned toward her with a retort on her lips—I’m not your bound servant—but then saw the woman’s pallor, the bruised-looking hollows beneath her eyes. She warred with herself a moment before sullenly going to the valise. She picked through its contents—and the word Ahmad appeared, written upon a thin piece of paper half tucked into something else.
She paused, then moved it
