Magruder's Curiosity Cabinet by H. P. Wood

ago.”
    Archie laughs. “I’m impressed! But don’t worry, you’ll be fine. It’s not the hotel that concerns us; it’s that establishment there.” He points at one shop in particular: Pearson’s Fine Art and Collectibles.
    Kitty looks at Archie again. “That’s all you want?”
    He smiles. “That’s all I want. Go in, do as I told you, say what I told you, and then? We’ll enjoy a fine meal.”
    Kitty’s stomach roars at the thought. She is about to open Pearson’s door when a young man passes by. Kitty recognizes him immediately. He’s dressed in street clothes, not the bellhop uniform in which she’d met him earlier, but his freckles and wayward red hair are unmistakable. “Excuse me,” she says. “Seamus? Seamus?”
    The young man turns, and his face somersaults from recognition to disbelief to something much like horror. “Err…I’m sorry, miss,” he stammers, backing away. “You must have mistaken me for someone else?”
    Kitty grabs his arm. “You’re Seamus… You had a name tag. I remember. You brought our bags up to our room. You must remember! It was just a few days ago. Surely you—”
    â€œI’m sorry, miss,” he says, backing away. “I don’t know you? We’ve never met?” His Belfast accent turns even the simplest statements into questions.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œNo! No, I don’t know you.” He looks at her sadly. “I’m sorry? I can’t help you?” He flees.
    Kitty calls after him. “But, Seamus, please! I’ve nowhere else to turn! Seamus!”
    â€œThat’s enough,” Archie says sharply. “Don’t make a scene. Go do as you’re told.” He nudges her roughly toward the door of the art gallery.
    Kitty watches Seamus disappear into the crowd. She sighs. “All right, I’m going.” She takes a deep breath and reaches for the door. But as she opens it, she catches a glimpse of her reflection in the glass. Good Lord.
    She’s sunburned, for starters. And not a lovely, holiday-in-Sardinia sort of sunburned. Her skin is splotchy and red, and the skin on her nose is starting to peel. Her eyes are bloodshot, her lips are chapped, and her long, blond locks are “braided” only in the most charitable sense. She’d hide the whole catastrophe with her hat, but she seems to have lost it somewhere. She’s trying to remember where she left it—did she have it at the ferry?—when Archie hisses “Go on!” and shoves her across the threshold.
    The walls of the narrow art gallery are crowded with dreamy visions of seaside holidays: delicate young ladies in bathing costumes, hearty young men piloting sailboats, suntanned children building sand castles.
    A polished gentleman in a fine suit approaches, sizing her up. Kitty freezes, and her stomach flips over. He knows. She can see it written on his face: she looks less like an art collector and more like a Bedlam escapee, and he knows . Next, he’ll toss her out, and Archie will abandon her, and she’ll either starve to death or be eaten alive by the tattooed wolves that hunt Surf Avenue. Or he’ll call the police, and next will be jail and then deportation, shipped back to London in a steerage container full of rats…
    But then she thinks, Dinner rolls. Might as well give Archie’s plan a go. In seventeen years, she’s never had so little to lose.
    â€œI’m terribly sorry to trouble you,” she says pitifully. “I’ve no wish at all to—”
    The man tilts his head curiously. “You’re English?”
    â€œYes. My name is Katherine Hayward.” Archie had advised that she use her real name; he said it would add authenticity to her voice. But her voice still catches a bit as she stands on the precipice of reciting Archie’s first lie. “Of