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stopper and took a tiny swallow of the bitter liquid inside. Then she took off her shoes and collapsed on the bed. Closing her eyes, she put her hands over her face, homesickness and grief washing over her in torrential waves.
    After a few long, unbearable minutes, she felt the laudanum slithering through her veins and muscles, loosening the crush of anguish inside her chest. When she thought she could trust herself to sit up without feeling dizzy, she swung her legs over the bed and stood. She unbuttoned the long sleeves and high collar of the mourning dress, undid the waistband, and slipped the garment over her head. The skirt’s underwire caught in her hair, and for a minute she was stuck. Finally she ripped the heavy garment over her head, tearing out a small clump of hair. Tears of pain sprang up in her eyes, and she blinked against a new flood of despair. She removed her petticoat, untied her corset, and took off her stockings.
    Finally able to breath, she opened her suitcase and retrieved the copy of the New York Times from the inside pocket—given to her by a nurse before she left the hospital. She sat down on the bed, turned to the page featuring the list of theater employees who had died in the fire, and read her parents’ names for the hundredth time.
    Back in Manhattan, when she and her father used to walk past the offices of the New York Times at One Times Square, he always joked that the only time he’d get his name in the paper was after he was dead. When that day came, he used to say, he wanted her to remember that he had lived the life he wanted, and that he loved her more than anything on Earth. No matter how much she missed him after he was gone, he wanted her to look forward, toward the rest of her life, and make the choice to be happy.
    The black and white print blurred on the page, and Emma tried to make the choice to be happy. It didn’t work. She returned the newspaper to the suitcase and slipped off her chemise.
    At the nightstand, a thin towel hung from a wrought-iron hook, and a bar of lavender soap sat on top of a folded washcloth. She lifted the pitcher and was relieved to find it full of water. She filled the washbasin and rinsed her face, then used the washcloth and soap to clean her arms, hands, and neck, scrubbing three days’ worth of grime and sweat from her skin. How she longed to soak in a tub of hot, soapy water, to wash her dirty hair and relax her tired muscles. But there wasn’t time.
    She finished washing, unpinned her hair, brushed the snarls out of it, and worked it into one long braid, leaving it free to hang down her back. She put on her petticoat and the broadcloth skirt, unbuckled the belt and tied it around her waist to keep the skirt from falling off, then put on the baggy, shawl-collared blouse and her only pair of shoes—lace-up boots with heels and pointed toes. Then she took a deep breath, opened the bedroom door, and went downstairs.

CHAPTER 3
    T hey sat beneath a gas chandelier in the dining room, tiny, flickering flames reflected in the walnut-paneled ceiling. Uncle Otis was at the head of the table, Aunt Ida to his left and Percy to his right, wine bottle in hand, studying its label. Aunt Ida had insisted that Emma be seated next to Percy to avoid having to shout along the length of the outlandishly long piece of furniture. Behind Aunt Ida, platters of roasted beef filled the sideboard, along with bowls of green beans and pickled beets, and a basket of fresh-out-of-the-oven tea rolls. Nearly nauseated by the thought of eating, Emma would have been happy with a glass of cool water. The only beverages on the table were wine, coffee, and hot tea. To her dismay, the small sip of laudanum was already beginning to wear off, leaving her with the heightened sense of feeling trapped. She thought about having a glass of wine, but was afraid she wouldn’t stop drinking once she started. All she could smell was warm dust drifting up from the Persian carpet. She wanted to