The Museum of Extraordinary Things

MARCH 1911

IN THE LAST DAYS of March the windy month turned mild, but despite the approach of springtime, the Professor’s mood was even more foul. Ashes had swept across the East River, depositing cinders throughout the gardens of Brooklyn, smoldering among the onions and the peas with a bright yellow glow. Everyone’s attention had been riveted by the Triangle Fire, the greatest workplace disaster to occur in the history of New York. A wave of sorrow stretched out, and the world in which they lived seemed a much more perilous place. The dangers of ordinary life left the population dazed. The newspapers were filled with reports of worker unrest. Vigils of inconsolable mourners who had lost beloved family members went on throughout the city. The days were already lengthening, yet a darkness held fast. Even at dawn the light was a cold, bitter shade.

In Brooklyn, the Museum of Extraordinary Things was shuttered. A gloom had descended as the Professor’s plans began to unspool. He’d been unable to locate a creature he might put forth as the Hudson Mystery. Soon the public would forget the sightings in the river, and the men and boys who’d vowed they’d seen a monster would be considered nothing more than fools. Readers of the Sun and the Times and the Tribune were gripped not by notions of magical creatures but by the politics of the city. A war of sorts had broken out between workers and business owners. Even Governor Dix, a Democrat himself, had called for an investigation of the Tammany leaders, whose pockets were lined at the expense of the working people of New York. It was all Commissioner Waldo and Chief Croker could do to keep a rough sort of peace, one that seemed ready to explode on a daily basis. The fire was the only topic people could talk about, and there was little room for other news. If anything, the monster they were interested in was the city itself, torn apart by rage. Soon enough bloody riots erupted on the avenues and outraged workers gathered in meeting halls. The streets near the disaster had been washed with buckets of soapy water, yet no matter how often city workers might clean the pavements, there were red stains marking the cement. In between the paving stones, it was still possible to spy shimmering shards of bone.

An investigation had begun, but the owners of the factory, who’d fled before the mourners could identify their dead, had yet to be arrested. The curtain that split the city in two, separating those who could escape to the rooftops from those who could not, had been torn open to reveal inequities long kept in the dark. People were furious to find that life was considered a treasure for some but worth so little for others. A huge gathering of garment workers was arranged to take place at the Metropolitan Opera House on Thirty-fourth Street, with hundreds of women taking the stage, insisting on better conditions for the half of the city that worked for the benefit of the half that could calmly gaze at the damage around them through their windows, safe and protected from the mayhem on the streets and from the despair of those who tailored the clothes they wore.

It might have been best to let go of the idea of creating a monster, but the Professor was single-minded, convinced that, in brutal times, people longed more than ever for an escape from the harsh realities of their daily lives. Why else would the construction to spruce up Dreamland continue at such a fast pace? The renovation of the park would cost close to a million dollars. The buildings, once starkly white, had been repainted in a riot of color, and a thrilling concession named Hell Gate was being prepared, a wild boat ride over rushing water through a covered tunnel in which an individual might become drenched and terrified as he progressed through man-made rapids and whirlpools while having the time of his life. The greatest animal trainer in the world, the one-armed Captain Jack Bonavita, would have a show of lions. And Colonel Joseph Ferrari, a genius with animals, had gathered leopards, pumas, bears, and hyenas. One of the most beloved creatures in Coney Island, Little Hip, an elephant so attached to his trainer they slept in the same room, would lead a parade circling the park each morning. Coralie had gawked through the fence at the huge ballroom overlooking the sea, now being revamped on Dreamland’s Pier. A thousand electric lights would glow in tints of rose and green. She wondered how it might feel to dance in the arms of the young man from the woods. He might whisper The whole world is ours if we make it so.

There had been a recent announcement declaring that Dreamland would venture into the world of science, for what was more miraculous than the future men made for themselves? There was already a village built in 1904 called Lilliputia, where three hundred little people resided in a world of their own, with their own fire department and parliament, so that they might be studied by the crowds. There were exotic human beings who startled New Yorkers with their differences: Algerian horsemen, Somali warriors, Bantu women who stretched their necks and lips with brass rings. The Dreamland sideshow featured oddities and curiosities the Professor referred to as freaks rather than wonders: Ursa, the bear girl. Rob Roy, the albino. A human salamander named Schrief, who could catch flies with a flick of his tongue. There was an exhibition to display the tiniest babies in the state, each cared for by a nurse in a starched white uniform, each babe placed in a new contraption called an incubator, a machine not yet used in hospitals.

This devotion to science infuriated the Professor, for it was a realm he considered to be his own. He could never afford the huge exhibitions Dreamland would offer, and yet he felt that grand park stole from him. The Wolfman, the very act Sardie had created, was said to be one of the acts planned for display in the sideshow just outside Dreamland’s gates, steps away from the Museum of Extraordinary Things. The beaten-down creature rescued from a jail cell would now be known as Professor Morris. He would wear a tuxedo and glasses and smoke a pipe as he read Shakespeare’s sonnets and the poetry of that great local hero, Whitman, in a voice that was as heavenly as his countenance was beastly.

“Do you think it’s true that he’ll work for Father’s enemy?” Coralie asked Maureen as they cleared the overgrown area that would soon be the vegetable garden. Coralie had always wished Mr. Morris had left them to travel from one wonder of the world to another, from Paris to Cairo to the Victoria Falls.

The two women tended their garden each spring, wearing muslin aprons and heavy boots as they cleared out mud. Coney Island, once pastureland for cows, flooded each winter, which was why there was a need for raised, slatted sidewalks and why the iron pier was so very popular. This year the women raked cinders and their eyes teared as they labored. These were the ashes of the dead that had drifted across the East River. By June there would be all manner of herbs in this garden, rosemary and sorrel and parsley, along with mustard, which was said to cast off gloom, and madder root, which was used for a dye. There would be bulbs of garlic that would appear burnt when peeled and tomatoes with bloody, black hearts, formed, perhaps, from their bed of embers. Coralie and Maureen did not speak of the tragedy. They usually did not discuss disturbing issues, which was why Mr. Morris was not often a topic of conversation. The museum employees likely had been directed not to ruminate over his fate, for whenever Coralie had brought up the Wolfman, the living wonders had gazed away. It had been several years since Professor Sardie had let him go. Now, as they worked side by side, Maureen paused upon hearing Mr. Morris’s name, but she quickly resumed ridding the garden of stickers and weeds. “How would I know what’s become of him?” she huffed. “I’m employed as a maid, not a mind reader.”

Yet a distracted smile played upon her usually stern mouth. Coralie had always guessed that the housekeeper knew far more than she dared to say.

“Fine, don’t tell me. Keep your secrets.”

Coralie had her own secrets, the nighttime swims in the Hudson, of which Maureen would have never approved. All the same, she was hurt by this turn of events, for she’d mourned Raymond Morris after his disappearance, and had feared for his welfare. She used her spade to make neat furrows for a row of peas, turning away to ensure that Maureen wouldn’t notice the tears flooding her eyes. The sun was so bright that the dim light that had been drifting over to Brooklyn ever since the Triangle Fire was finally burning up.

When Maureen came up beside her, Coralie pretended to be squinting in the haze. “It’s not you I’m keeping things from.” Maureen slipped an arm around her charge’s waist. “Trust me when I say, it’s best for both of us to keep our thoughts to ourselves.”

PROFESSOR SARDIE was more desperate every day, frantic in his quest to find a wonder that would match the ones soon to be on display at Dreamland. He arranged for Coralie to make one final swim. She had always considered herself to be fearless in the water, but now she felt a wave of anxiety. For the past few nights she’d experienced a recurring dream in which she remained underwater for so long she grew gills and fins. It was a painful, bloody process. In every dream, when she attempted to climb from the river to its banks, she found she could not walk across the grass but instead slipped back into the watery depths, gasping for breath, confused as to what sort of creature she had come to be.

“Perhaps it doesn’t make sense to excite people for something that doesn’t yet exist,” she dared to say to her father as they waited for the carriage. She felt the base of her throat, for her dream had seemed so real she imagined she’d find a line of gills, as if she were becoming what she pretended to be.

The Professor laughed at Coralie’s fears, insisting a real showman could present his audience with a snapping turtle, call it a leviathan, and be believed if the story of its capture was told with enough drama and excitement. Blood helped such stories along, and for this reason he handed Coralie a small, sharp knife, the very one she’d used upon herself.

“This blade will do in lieu of fangs. If the hand of a fisherman is trailing in the water, take up the knife. Let there be blood in the water. That’s how the Hudson Mystery will find its way onto the front page, despite the struggles on the street.”

The liveryman brought them across the Brooklyn Bridge in the fading light of the day. The city was aglow, especially along Broadway, where the electric streetlights came on all at once, brilliant in the pale twilight. It had rained earlier, and when they reached the West Side, a single line of pink hung like a ribbon above the New Jersey shore. As they traveled west and then north, Coralie thought of the young man she had come across in the woods, and once again she was filled with a nameless longing. She had gone to Maureen for advice that very afternoon. How did she stop the attraction to this man?

“Is this someone you’ve given yourself to?” Maureen’s expression had been worried.

“Of course not! But I hear him call to me when no one is there.” Coralie had not mentioned that on these occasions her heart was in her throat.

“If you don’t want to think of a man, say his name backward three times. If that doesn’t work, write his name on paper, burn it, then bury it in the garden.”

Coralie had laughed. “What will that accomplish?”

“We all burn for what is bad for us,” Maureen had assured her. “Burn him in return. Maybe then the bastard won’t have such a hold over you.”

“Did Raymond Morris have a hold over you?”

“That was something entirely different.” Maureen had spoken in a voice so quiet she didn’t sound like herself. “You are young, Cora. So here’s my advice, should you see him again, all you can do is close your eyes.”

“And then?”

“Then pray he disappears, for you cannot change the way you feel. There is no spell or magic to work for that. Just be smart. Look at him clearly. See who he is.”

Coralie practiced Maureen’s suggestion as the carriage continued uptown through the dark streets. She closed her eyes and did not think of him. Instead, she imagined their garden; she thought of the runner beans she would plant, and the heat of the sunlight when the tomato plants began to flower. It did no good. When she opened her eyes all she could think of was the man in the woods. He was like a fever; she could feel him all over her. She was somewhat dazed, as she had been when she’d fallen ill as a child and Maureen feared she’d contracted the Spanish flu.

“What will you say to the authorities if you’re caught?” the Professor asked as they neared their destination. Coralie had no choice but to pull herself together. They had rehearsed her response several times. The Professor did not believe in chance or luck but in being fully prepared. That was virtue in his eyes.

“I decided to take on the Hudson River as a challenge to my skill as a swimmer,” Coralie responded by rote. She felt like a puppet on a string, but one whose heart was beating too fast, whose thoughts strayed dangerously far. If this was what love was like, it was disconcerting, something over which she indeed had no control.

The Professor nodded, satisfied.

There was to be a full moon, perfect conditions for his plan, although the river was running quite high. At this time of year, the murky spring currents carried roots and fallen trees and all manner of man-made items that had been frozen into the ice upstate and had recently been freed in the thaw. As the Professor prepared the monster’s mask, Coralie went to the grassy bank to remove her coat and her shoes. The chill of the air felt like pinpricks. She stretched, as she always did before a long swim, then practiced her breathing technique. The liveryman was nearby, letting the carriage horse graze. Coralie stole a glance and noticed he was staring into the woods. When she followed his gaze, she spied a large gathering of blackbirds, a hundred or more fluttering through the trees. She wondered if this was an omen, and if she should fear its meaning or be relieved.

“So many,” she said, marveling at the birds, forgetting she was not allowed to address the hired man. “I wonder if they speak to each other, like men and women, or if their calling goes unanswered.”

The hired man buttoned his jacket, as if this might make their conversation more acceptable. “Men and women rarely speak to each other, though they often talk.”

They were out of the Professor’s hearing and sight, so Coralie continued. “People might speak freely if they didn’t fear one another’s judgments.”

“Then let me speak freely,” the liveryman said. There were scars on his face and neck, hastily sewn by a surgeon who certainly couldn’t be called a credit to his profession. “I don’t think you should swim tonight.”

Coralie found she wasn’t the least bit uncomfortable conversing with this man, even though Maureen had confided he’d once been the boss of one of the toughest gangs in lower Manhattan, willing to go up against some of the established Italian gangsters of the Cosa Nostra and the Black Hand, who were so numerous Prince Street was called Black Hand Street. The liveryman had been to prison before coming to work as the Professor’s driver, a humbled man who’d done far too much damage when he was young, to others and to himself.

“Blackbirds can sense danger,” the hired man went on. “You’ll never see one in a storm. They take flight long before the first raindrops fall.” He whistled a trilling call. Soon enough one of the blackbirds came to perch on the branch of a nearby sycamore tree.

“You can speak to him!” Coralie was charmed.

The hired man admitted that he’d kept pet birds for a good part of his life, mostly bright parakeets and parrots from South America, along with his beloved pigeons. “A bird will never lie, just as a man will rarely tell the truth. That’s been my experience and no one will convince me otherwise. So I’ll speak as the birds do, with honest intent. The river looks rough, miss. It’s running wildly and it’s dangerous. An experienced sailor could drown in such conditions. I wouldn’t send my daughter into it, if I were lucky enough to have one.”

The Professor was approaching, and the two who had been speaking in confidence stepped away from one another. Not quickly enough, however. Sardie had taken note of their conversation, and he threw his employee a dark look. He then drew Coralie aside. “Did I tell you not to speak to him? He’s a criminal, Cora. I’m giving him a second chance, but be warned. He has killed more men than you will ever meet in your lifetime.”

Coralie gazed at the hired man, who held his horse’s reins as he whispered in the beast’s ear. She had a surge of trust in his judgment.

“The water’s so wild, Father. I wonder if we should put off this swim.”

“Is that what that fool told you? He has absolutely no idea of who you are and what your training has been. I’m not the least bit worried. This is your farewell to the Hudson River. Once it’s over and done, I swear I’ll find a creature worthy of the news you create.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “You’re not a coward, are you? Tell me I didn’t waste all this time on you?”

Convinced she had no choice, Coralie went to the water line and waded out. When she was to her waist, she dove in, grateful for the silence of the river, which was broken only by the slap of the waves as she cut through the water. She felt herself taken up by the north-flowing current, which was indeed moving quickly, but she enjoyed the effortlessness of her swim and went where the river led her. The moon had slipped behind clouds, and Coralie came up beside a rowboat, unnoticed in the dark. As she paddled beside the skiff, she heard two men speak of their wives and of the fish they meant to bring home to them for supper. She wondered what it might be like to have a husband who spoke of you so tenderly.

She’d been instructed to draw blood as any true beast would, but Coralie had forgotten her orders. It seemed as if she had entered into a dream, spellbound by her own thoughts. Mist rose from the water in bursts of cloudy air. There was a run of sturgeon, large fish known to bite, but they ignored Coralie and swam along beside her. It was possible that they thought she was one of their own kind, as much a fish as she was a woman. As she was carried upstream, she imagined the young man, though Maureen had warned against this. She might have gone on floating for hours more, but all at once she hit something straight on. She was suddenly and achingly present. She wondered if she had collided with a sturgeon, for the thing she’d been driven into was large, yet more pliable than a log. When she gathered her wits, she spied what she believed to be a fish nearly her own size floating before her, pale blue in the muddy water. Both Coralie and this creature had become enmeshed in a soup of floating debris.

She had already passed the cliffs of the Palisades, which she recognized from her previous swim. She’d entered into the dangerous flux where the Harlem River was aswirl with eddies as the north and south currents met, and had been caught up in waterweeds, long wavering plants whose roots reached hundreds of feet below the surface. The tendrils held fast, pulling her down so that she took in mouthfuls of water. The fish trapped with her was immobilized, not able to struggle for its life as Coralie did. Without thinking, she grabbed on to the fish and tried to pull herself up so that she wouldn’t be dragged into the center of the whirlpool. She had expected cool, slippery scales; instead there was the woolly nub of sopping fabric. All at once she realized she was holding on to a drenched coat. In her arms was the body of a young woman, facedown, long pale hair flowing, arms and legs entangled in the ropes of waterweeds.

In a panic, Coralie reached for the knife in her pocket and set to work frantically chopping at the dark, slimy tendrils that had wound around them, freeing herself first. She continued to hack through the weeds, managing to tug the other girl from the grip of the twisted greenery. The two slipped underwater for one terrifying moment. Coralie could see her companion’s pale hair drifting out. When she realized that she was being pulled down by the weight of the unconscious girl, she began to kick furiously, releasing them from the whirlpool, swimming against the currents, hauling the other woman along. Once she reached the shore, Coralie couldn’t catch her breath, which rasped inside her. She forced herself to crawl over the grass and the stalks of milkweed, the roots of which the Lenape Indians used to cure fever but which now tore at her hands as she pulled the other woman through the weeds. When she could go no farther, she let go of the stranger she’d rescued and lay beside her on the ground, exhausted. Her lungs hurt from the effort. She shivered uncontrollably, and yet, she had never felt as alive. Above them the sky was endless, flecked with bright stars.

“We’re safe,” she said.

The young woman beside Coralie was unresponsive. It was possible that she had hit her head or swallowed too much water. The enormity of Coralie’s responsibility burst upon her.

“Hello!” she shouted into the woods. “Can anyone hear me?”

She prayed the young man would be nearby and hear, but her own voice echoed back and no response came, aside from the fluttering of birds in the thornbushes, awakened from sleep by her frightened cries. The birds rose like a plume of smoke, disappearing into the blue-black sky.

The rescued woman was the same age as Coralie, or a little younger. Peering through the dark, Coralie saw that she was quite beautiful. She also noticed a widening splash of blood upon the stranger’s chest. She gasped, thinking her charge had been seriously wounded, then realized it was she herself who bled. She had caught her wrist on something sharp, perhaps a rock, or her own knife as she hacked through the weeds.

Coralie drew herself up to kneel beside the other girl. All she could hear was her own ragged breathing. There was a fluttering inside her, a wild emotion she couldn’t temper. She leaned over the girl, placing her ear to the sopping coat. The fabric had once been sky blue, but soaking wet it had turned the color of ink. Coralie had no idea how a heart was supposed to sound; all she could hear was the deafening thrum of her own heart in her ears. But she knew that flesh should not be blue and arms and legs should not be rigid. The girl’s head had fallen to the side, as if she were a doll. Coralie reached to take the drowned girl’s hand, but it was tightly clenched. She held a finger to the girl’s mouth to test for breath. There was none; the girl’s lips were blue, her mouth clamped shut.

At last, Coralie wrenched to her feet, knees shaking. She felt the other girl’s death inside her own body, a stone of grief in her throat. Acting on instinct, she ran. She blindly went toward the river. In the woods there were flashes of what appeared to be bright globes of light: migrating yellow warblers flinging themselves through the gloom. Coralie raced on, past some fishermen in a skiff, who spied her and called out. She continued through the brambles. She was too removed from the world of the living to communicate with human beings. Yet she could feel her heart banging against her ribs as she ran, letting her know that she was still alive.

She came upon the carriage in the dark. The wound on her hand was deep enough so that blood continued to rush forth, staining her white blouse. Perhaps she appeared to be a monster when she approached her father, for he backed away and did not take her in his arms. Coralie stood there, wringing wet, shivering, her complexion starkly white beneath the streaks of green paint that had washed onto her cheeks.

The liveryman came to her with a blanket. “Miss, this was a bad night for the river. I told you that.”

Coralie’s father now approached, concerned for their plan. “Have you been found out?”

She shook her head. When she tried to speak, no words were heard, only a croak, as if she had lost her voice in the river. Her face smarted with the cold. The silence of the girl in the blue coat had affected her, chilled her to the core.

The Professor took her arm, demanding to know what had caused her such distress. “This is not a game.” He saw her silence as disobedience. “You’ll tell me directly, or you’ll regret it.”

Coralie’s pale face flushed. “I found a body in the river.” Her voice sounded strangely flat. “I left her in the woods. She drowned.”

Coralie expected her father to berate her, for the dead were not their concern any more than the living were. She presumed he would contend that a corpse in the grass was no different than a child offered for a good price. And yet a strange look began to play upon the Professor’s face, his interest piqued. He asked Coralie to lead them to the place where she’d left the body. The liveryman took them along the road by carriage. Coralie continued to shiver. “The road ends nearby,” she warned. “It’s best we avoid this situation and let the authorities find her.” Once, at the funeral of a living wonder, an old man with warts like a bullfrog’s who had died in his own bed of old age, Maureen had cautioned her that if she should look upon a dead man twice, she would carry him forever. They’d hurried away from the funeral home, but Maureen’s warning had stayed with her. “We should turn back,” Coralie recommended now.

“We’ll go when I say,” her father told her. “Have faith in me.”

At the road’s end, the liveryman tied his horse to the branch of a chestnut tree and they continued on by foot. A few birds sang in the dark, but the quiet was so deep that each branch breaking under the men’s boots echoed as if a rifle had been shot. A thicker mist began to rise off the water, turning the distant shore silver. The air was warmer than the cold, hard ground. The trees were pewter, the ferns black as coal. Confused, Coralie led them in the wrong direction, and then had to backtrack. The Professor grumbled, annoyed to realize she’d taken them in a circle. But Coralie wondered anew whether it might be best if they failed to reach their destination. Possibly she had been wrong and had mistaken exhaustion for death. There might well be nothing for her father to see. Surely it was within the realm of reason to think that the girl had slept for a while in the tall grass after Coralie had run off, then had awoken refreshed. She may have smoothed down her hair, buttoned her blue coat, and arisen from the meadow to walk barefoot through the woods. You will never believe my dream, she may have told her parents, waiting at the door, relieved beyond words by her return. I dreamed I drowned and a girl who was half fish discovered me and brought me to the shore, intent on rescuing me so that I might live and walk on land like any other young woman and be your daughter once again.

Their journey continued blindly, for it now seemed apparent that Coralie couldn’t find her way. How mortified she would be if she discovered that she’d dreamed the encounter and they found nothing more than a great blue fish in the grass. But then the liveryman called out. “I see something in the hollow.”

They followed him now, the Professor rushing through the bushes, Coralie trailing behind, for she not only dreaded what they would find, she feared the reason her father had insisted they come here. Perhaps the time had come for her to defy him. If only she could find the strength to hurl herself into her own destiny, running there head-on, resolved to find her freedom. She gazed at leaves, imagining Egypt and Paris and all the wonders of the world that awaited her.

“There she is!” the liveryman shouted.

A sheaf of blue in the dark ferns and brambles.

When they came upon the body, Coralie felt something sharp run through her. She knew Maureen was right. She would indeed carry the dead with her. Coralie had the urge to turn away, but she could not. She had already seen what was before them.

The Professor shrugged off his black overcoat and threw it over the young woman. “Take her back to the wagon,” he told the liveryman. “Our treasure.”

“This isn’t what I do,” the liveryman replied, bristling. “I’ve been to jail for too many years. Now that I’m a free man, I’m not about to go back.”

“You’ll do it, or you’ll find yourself in jail for worse offenses,” the Professor told him. When he saw the grim expression on the liveryman’s face, the Professor tried another tactic. “There’s double what I usually pay in it. That should make the deed easier for you to complete.”

Coralie now noticed that the drowned girl’s head rested on weeds that had been arranged to form a pillow; her hands were crossed one upon the other on her chest. Coralie had not left the young woman in this tender position, as if waiting for the world to come. She gazed into the woods to try to spy whoever might have tended to the drowned girl, but she saw nothing but locust trees and reeds that stood nearly ten feet tall along the bank. The liveryman lifted the body over his shoulder. As he did so, the girl’s clutched hands were jostled, and what appeared to be two black stones fell from her grasp. Coralie bent to retrieve them. Once in her hands she realized these weren’t stones at all but buttons, cold as water, made of black glass.

They went back the way they had come, only now rays of sunlight glinted through the leaves and the waking songbirds trilled. They tramped along for a time, wordless, until they came upon the carriage. The Professor embraced Coralie in a rare show of affection. “You found the Hudson Mystery,” he informed her.

“Father.” Coralie paled. “How is that possible? She’s only a woman.”

“She’s that now. But when I’m finished with her, she’ll be far more.”

Coralie thought of the baby’s skeleton she’d once found upon his desk and the surgery tools set out on the white table. She thought, too, of the specimens in the glass bottles, creatures not made by God but sewn and hammered together.

“We have no choice but to create what we need,” her father assured her when he spied her worried expression. “There was a mermaid in the Hudson River who died in the cold currents, the Mystery that has haunted New York. It is our duty to preserve her so that she might remain intact for all eternity.”

The liveryman had carried the body up to the carriage; he stored the drowned girl beneath the bench. Water pooled on the floor, and there was a wet, green odor that was impossible to ignore. When she took her seat, Coralie did not look at her father but instead gazed out the window as he came to sit beside her. The horse began its easy pace through the woods.

“We have our miracle,” the Professor said, satisfied.

An outrage arose within Coralie, a distaste for her father’s business so strong it felt like a flicker of hatred. She would never again listen to his words as if they were gospel. No matter what he intended to do in the future or what deeds he had committed in the past, Coralie was certain that in good time every secret would be shared. Every miracle would be called into question.