seat more than Beret did. She rode for a few blocks, but the swaying of the car, the crowd pushing against her, the smells of wet wool combined with sweat and tobacco smoke, nauseated her, and as soon as the car reached Broadway, she got off to walk the remaining half-dozen blocks to her uncle’s house.
The cold hit her then. It had been almost spring in New York when she’d left, and she did not consider that Denver was in sight of the mountains, that the cold from the high peaks swept down into the city. So she had not brought a winter coat. But she spent her days among the dregs of humanity at the mission and was used to discomfort. It would not have occurred to Beret to wear furs or even a fashionable warm cloak to the mission. She was used to the drafty building, the floors that were black from the slush and dirt and coal dust that the women tracked in. So she folded her arms around herself to keep out the cold and walked on, grateful for something to distract her from her grief, if only for a moment or two.
As she grew used to the wind, Beret found herself hating Lillie and thinking her sister deserved what she’d gotten, then loving the golden child who had once looked at her with awe and trust. Beret had loved Lillie more than anyone else in the world, more than herself even. But she had hated her sister, too, although even in her despair, she would not have hurt the girl, not physically.
Who could have hated her more than Beret? She shuddered as she thought of the scissors cutting into Lillie’s flesh, six, seven, eight thrusts, of the blood spurting out onto Lillie’s white breasts, splattering her hands as she tried to protect herself. Lillie’s skin was as white as a lily. That was where she had gotten her name. Her parents had wanted to call her Martha Brown Osmundsen, after a friend, but Beret had insisted on another name, had said that with her pale skin and white-blond hair, the infant looked like a lily, and so she had become Lillie Osmundsen, no middle name because Beret said that “Brown” was too ugly to follow “Lillie.” But Lillie must not have thought so, because when she’d turned out, she had taken the name Lillie Brown.
Beret walked east to Grant Avenue, then turned south. Night had come on, and the street was dark, lit only by the gaslights whose crystal shades glittered with fire through the leaded-glass windows of the mansions of Millionaires’ Row. The street was lined with brick-and-stone castles, their spires and crenellated towers, porches and balconies and cast-iron fences, evidence that their occupants were the newly wealthy of a new city. The houses were not as overblown as those along New York’s Fifth Avenue. Nonetheless, they were designed to impress, which they did with their paneling of rare woods, their gilt, their profusion of stained-glass and crystal windows peeking out from behind velvet curtains held stiffly in place by golden cord tiebacks. Beret knew, because on previous trips to visit her relatives, she had been entertained in those houses.
Judge John Stanton’s house was less ponderous, less extravagant, more graceful than its neighbors on Grant Avenue, thanks to his wife’s good taste, but it was impressive and every bit as expensive—a Palladian-style brick mansion of three stories, fronted by a porch and tall white columns. The house seemed a little at odds with its neighbors, more Southern in style than nouveau riche Denver, more classical. A two-story stable stood beside and a little to the rear of the house, for her uncle was a man who appreciated horseflesh and employed two men to care for his animals—the rodentlike Jonas and an assistant. She looked up, expecting to see the house, and was confused. Deep in thought, she had turned down the wrong street, and it was unfamiliar. So were the houses. Perhaps they had been built since her last trip to Denver. Lost and feeling wretched for causing her aunt to worry, she looked up and down the street,
The cold hit her then. It had been almost spring in New York when she’d left, and she did not consider that Denver was in sight of the mountains, that the cold from the high peaks swept down into the city. So she had not brought a winter coat. But she spent her days among the dregs of humanity at the mission and was used to discomfort. It would not have occurred to Beret to wear furs or even a fashionable warm cloak to the mission. She was used to the drafty building, the floors that were black from the slush and dirt and coal dust that the women tracked in. So she folded her arms around herself to keep out the cold and walked on, grateful for something to distract her from her grief, if only for a moment or two.
As she grew used to the wind, Beret found herself hating Lillie and thinking her sister deserved what she’d gotten, then loving the golden child who had once looked at her with awe and trust. Beret had loved Lillie more than anyone else in the world, more than herself even. But she had hated her sister, too, although even in her despair, she would not have hurt the girl, not physically.
Who could have hated her more than Beret? She shuddered as she thought of the scissors cutting into Lillie’s flesh, six, seven, eight thrusts, of the blood spurting out onto Lillie’s white breasts, splattering her hands as she tried to protect herself. Lillie’s skin was as white as a lily. That was where she had gotten her name. Her parents had wanted to call her Martha Brown Osmundsen, after a friend, but Beret had insisted on another name, had said that with her pale skin and white-blond hair, the infant looked like a lily, and so she had become Lillie Osmundsen, no middle name because Beret said that “Brown” was too ugly to follow “Lillie.” But Lillie must not have thought so, because when she’d turned out, she had taken the name Lillie Brown.
Beret walked east to Grant Avenue, then turned south. Night had come on, and the street was dark, lit only by the gaslights whose crystal shades glittered with fire through the leaded-glass windows of the mansions of Millionaires’ Row. The street was lined with brick-and-stone castles, their spires and crenellated towers, porches and balconies and cast-iron fences, evidence that their occupants were the newly wealthy of a new city. The houses were not as overblown as those along New York’s Fifth Avenue. Nonetheless, they were designed to impress, which they did with their paneling of rare woods, their gilt, their profusion of stained-glass and crystal windows peeking out from behind velvet curtains held stiffly in place by golden cord tiebacks. Beret knew, because on previous trips to visit her relatives, she had been entertained in those houses.
Judge John Stanton’s house was less ponderous, less extravagant, more graceful than its neighbors on Grant Avenue, thanks to his wife’s good taste, but it was impressive and every bit as expensive—a Palladian-style brick mansion of three stories, fronted by a porch and tall white columns. The house seemed a little at odds with its neighbors, more Southern in style than nouveau riche Denver, more classical. A two-story stable stood beside and a little to the rear of the house, for her uncle was a man who appreciated horseflesh and employed two men to care for his animals—the rodentlike Jonas and an assistant. She looked up, expecting to see the house, and was confused. Deep in thought, she had turned down the wrong street, and it was unfamiliar. So were the houses. Perhaps they had been built since her last trip to Denver. Lost and feeling wretched for causing her aunt to worry, she looked up and down the street,
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