“What kind of pressure?”
“I have to be fluent in two cultures: the world that my highly educated parents live in, where we are tolerated by the white majority, and the world inhabited by most young Black people, which is burning up.”
“I’m sorry, Joshua.”
“Me too, V, me too.”
They settled into the quiet—Veronica smiling to herself, chuffed that he’d given her a nickname.
* * *
The next thing Veronica heard was the clock chiming six times. She’d fallen asleep, and her shoulder ached from the stiff mattress. Outside, a snowplow drove by, the harsh scrape of metal on tarmac the first indication of impending freedom. The blizzard was over.
From across the room, Joshua stirred.
“You up?” she asked.
“I am.”
“Did you sleep at all?”
“Some.”
“What time does the building open up on a normal day?”
“The security guard comes in at eight,” said Joshua.
Two more hours. “I wonder what Mr. Frick would say about the two of us lounging about in his bedrooms, gallivanting around his home in the dark.”
Joshua gave a strangled chuckle. “He’s probably rolling over in his grave.”
She enjoyed making him laugh. When she’d first seen him, standing in the doorway of the room with the beautiful panels, he’d radiated a mixture of concern and authority that most guys his age doing a part-time job might not have managed. He’d been brought up to cherish art and was personally invested in the care of these beautiful objects.
She fingered the hard stone that lay in her pocket. It would not only help her with Polly’s care; it might help Joshua with the tuition for grad school at Columbia. She slowly started to draw it out.
“Joshua, there’s something I have to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
Her response was stopped by a loud slam downstairs.
“Was that the wind?” She sat up and began to put on her shoes, as did Joshua.
“The wind’s died down.” Large flakes made leisurely loop-de-loops on the other side of the windows. Joshua extricated an iron from the fireplace tool set. “Someone else is inside. Stay here and lock the door behind me.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. We should hide, not go down there and confront them.”
“What if someone is stealing something?”
“Or what if it’s the police, checking on things?” she said hopefully, before remembering their earlier discussion of how it would look if the police showed up. “Maybe I should go down.”
“Definitely not.”
“Then we go together.”
They took the front stairs, creeping as quietly as they could.
Another noise, another bang. “It’s in the direction of the garden court,” said Joshua.
He’d shown her the enclosed courtyard, which consisted mainly of plants arrayed around a fountain, during her tour. It had been added later, after the Fricks had moved out, as a serene spot for visitors to rest and gather their thoughts.
They ventured in, Joshua first. The first dabs of morning light peeked in through the arched skylights in uneven patches, wherever the snow had become too heavy and slid off. To the left was a line of French doors that ran along the main-floor hallway.
A strange muttering floated across the room, but Veronica couldn’t figure out where it came from. A cackle followed, like a witch might make. Veronica’s heart rose to her throat. “What was that?” she whispered.
Joshua stepped forward. She grabbed at his shirt to pull him back, but the fabric slipped through her fingers.
Slowly, she stepped out as well.
There was nothing there. Only the plants and the quiet gurgle of the fountain.
Maybe it was just the sound of the snow falling off the roof. She looked at Joshua, and was about to tell him that, when a shadowy apparition appeared on the steps at the opposite end from them.
In the dim light, Veronica could make out a woman, dressed in black. Her mouth was clenched in fury, her hands like claws. They weren’t alone, possibly hadn’t been this entire time.
And now she was barreling toward them, screaming.
Chapter Fifteen
1919
Lillian replayed the meeting with Mr. Broderick in her mind as she hurried up Fifth Avenue. How stupid to think that a film producer could solve all of her problems, save her from ruin. The hours she’d spent in the sculptors’ studios had been for the sake of art; this was something else entirely. What Mr. Broderick had in mind for Angelica the actress was far from the comedic genius of former model Mabel Normand or the spunky sweetness of Mary Pickford. He wanted her to debase herself for a chance at stardom.