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sighed, staring into the mirror into my devastated eyes, wondering if I would ever feel such a thrill again.

CHAPTER 3
    AS I WALKED DOWN MY STREET, I noted once again that our home was one of the last on the block occupied as a single-family home. Most were filled with working men with rooms to let and no board provided. Mrs. Smythe often simpered in disdain as the neighborhood became increasingly working class. All of the houses were built in a style similar to mine: simple four-story bow-fronted brick row homes with a basement. Each had steep staircases leading to the front door with intricately carved metal railings. A set of stairs in front of the house led down to the kitchen area, and I often used this door as a means of escape. With that thought, I attempted to banish Mrs. Smythe from my thoughts and to enjoy the day.
    I sighed in contentment to be outside, turning my head up to the blue sky, imagining the street in full bloom with the warmth and rebirth of spring. I envisioned the budding trees, the branches forming a green canopy overhead from which hidden birds trilled. I suddenly tripped on an uneven brick and reentered the present moment again with the last of winter and its barren trees.
    I continued my walk down Union Street before turning right onto the busy storefront-lined Washington Street. Horses pulled carts as their drivers ably avoided streetcars rumbling by on tracks in the middle of the road while numerous carriages lined each side. I glanced down the street at the steel monstrosity being created to elevate the streetcar. It had not yet reached Russell’s, although it would by the end of the year. The huge metal beams glistened in the sun, although the farther it encroached, the darker the street below became.
    I walked along the sidewalk, looking at the windows under large storefront awnings. I passed many familiar businesses: a Chinese laundry, a hat cleaning shop, a coffeehouse. Mr. Jeffries, the tailor, seemed particularly busy this morning, and I nodded to him as I continued toward my uncle’s store.
    I had always loved the store. As a child, I thought it a magical space with all the linen, ribbon and interesting people visiting throughout the day. Although a small shop, Uncle Martin managed to obtain and sell some of the most sought-after linens in Boston. He rejected the idea of ready-made clothes, believing there still existed a market for people to make their own clothes or visit a tailor.
    After entering, I glanced around, absently noting the unfinished display Gabriel had been working on. There were stacks of fine linens along three walls; in front of each was a low glass case. Inside these were ribbons, patterns and the most expensive linens. Lucas, Uncle Martin or Aunt Matilda took turns standing behind the glass cases, waiting on the customers. During busier times, both Uncle Martin and Lucas worked out front together.
    Lucas bounded into the storefront from upstairs, full of energy. “All ready, Rissa?” he asked, his amber eyes filled with good-natured mischief. Lucas wore a well-tailored suit with white shirt, black pants, waistcoat and jacket. He reached for a hat, covering his light brown hair. He and Uncle Martin always wore well-tailored clothes, believing themselves to be walking advertisements for the linens they sold.
    “Let’s go,” I agreed. I linked my arm with his, exiting Russell’s and strolling toward the trolley stop. “Lucas, have you heard that Cameron might be back?” I asked.
    Lucas stopped walking abruptly, staring at me in concern. We were jostled as other pedestrians had to scramble around us. He nodded his apologies to them and then focused his attention on me, studying me with squinted eyes, surprise and concern in his expression.
    “How do you feel about that, Rissa?”
    “I honestly don’t know,” I said. “Shocked. Saddened. Disappointed.”
    “Why disappointed?”
    “I want to forget about him, and I thought that at last I was succeeding. I